Kairos
by pearypie
Summary: Kairos: a moment of perfect, fleeting rightness in time. / OR. Robert Baratheon takes a Tully bride and the golden Lady Cersei is forcibly shipped North to wed an ice cold barbarian. A death sentence for the courtly jewel - after all, what does a solemn grey beast have to offer the fairest maiden in all the Seven Kingdoms? (And Jaime makes a cameo.)
1. Cold Lineaments

This was it then. The darkness that will swallow the dawn. Oh Cersei knows she's being dramatic, knows that there are fates far worse than being the next Lady of Winterfell but _honestly_. She is a lioness of the Rock, born and bred for luxury, influence, and _warmth_. Instead, her father is shipping her North to become mistress of a frozen wasteland with a husband who's as frigid as winter's gale. She is to become his wife because Robert Baratheon had taken the red haired Catelyn Tully for a bride on the advice of Jon Arryn.

The feeble minded fool.

Of course, the formidable Tywin Lannister had been furious but his anger had been a cold, calculated fury that contrasted sharply to Cersei's own fire and discontent. The only benefit her lord father had seen in having a drunken stag for a king was that his firstborn would be released from the Kingsguard and returned to Casterly Rock.

It made Cersei's fate three times worse to know that her beautiful, golden twin was _home_ while she was living out her days exiled off the very fringes of society. Certainly, she would not wither and die but she would suffer—Ned Stark was no catch and Cersei Lannister, the most beautiful woman in all the Seven Kingdoms, would never see another day in the sun.

All her beauty for naught. Admired by only ice and snow and stone faced barbarians.

* * *

 _Cersei had not been prepared for her father's summons and as a result, nearly ran from one end of the castle to his study, breathless and rosy cheeked. Ser Broom had tried to hide his chuckle at seeing the usually poised lioness flustered and unkempt but had wisely kept his mouth shut once Cersei fixed him with a cold, emerald glare. Instead, he'd opened the doors to Tywin Lannister's massive study of opulent chestnut and rich mahogany, wincing as Cersei swept in, vermillion skirts flaring behind her._

 _"You wished to see me father?" She asked punctually, curtsying low before straightening, her gaze expectant._

 _Tywin did not even rise from behind his great desk, hands busy with correspondence and two ledgers. "Indeed." He said curtly, finally gesturing for her to take a seat. "Robert Baratheon in all his oafish idiocy has finally accomplished a goal worth mentioning. He's released Jaime from his Kingsguard vows. He will be returning to the Rock within a fortnight."_

 _Tywin's words were clinical but Cersei detected an undertone of relief that she knew would never be publicly expressed. But it mattered not, Cersei preened inwardly, Jaime was coming home! At long last, her glorious, golden twin! Free from the tyranny of Aerys and away from—_

 _"But father." Cersei suddenly remembered. "What of me? When I become queen, who will be there for me at court?" When she wed Robert she would need Jaime by her side. Political intrigue Cersei could handle with royal power and authority in her hands but to be left so alone in a court of debauched, unruly men was disgruntling to say the least. She needed her other half, had never lived so long without him until the Mad King stole Jaime away. What—_

 _"Enough." Tywin ordered and Cersei, not realizing she had been squirming in her seat, quieted immediately. "You will not need Jaime in the Kingsguard for where you're going."_

 _Cersei felt her heart drop, felt a wave of panicked terror come over her because no. NO. She was to be queen. Father promised. She was to be_ _ **queen**_ _. "Father, I—"_

 _"You will be married to Eddard Stark three moons from now. He has accepted my terms without question and only asks I take on his younger brother as a squire for part of your dowry."_

 _"Eddard…Stark." That grim faced Northern man who held none of Brandon's vivacious charm or Lyanna Stark's wild beauty?_

 _"The very one." Tywin confirmed solemnly, finishing his two letters with a flourish of his name. "The harvest this year has been plentiful," he noted looking at one of the heavy leather-bound ledgers. "Jaime will be overseeing infrastructural reconstruction while I begin the new manufacturing of steel. You will convince your husband-to-be to purchase steel in his rebuilding of Winterfell and show the world its superiority to iron." There was no room for argument, no compromise to be said._

 _The desire to please her father overcame Cersei's pettier desires but did not soothe her wounded pride. "Of course I shall, father." She amended plainly. "But is it in our best interests to ally with the North? They have nothing we want."_

 _"Eddard Stark is the voice of reason to Robert Baratheon's foolish asininity. What's more, daughter, is that they produce half the coal needed for our fires, for the smelting of iron and steel." He sounded utterly disdainful of Cersei's ignorance, pouring salt onto her fresh wounds._

 _"Yes, father." She managed, never averting her eyes. She was a lioness after all._

 _He gave a curt nod. "Dismissed."_

* * *

And so she was. Dismissed to the farthest corners of Westeros for that matter. Deposited at Winterfell without Jaime, who would no doubt get a pretty Southern bride if the Hightowers had their way. Glancing out her carriage window, Cersei felt reluctant to leave the insulated plush velvet, the carmine and gold a last reminder of Casterly Rock _where she belonged_.

But it was too late. Ser Benedict Broom had already opened the carriage door, had already bowed and said _my lady_ and she was expected to make her grand entrance.

So be it. Cersei Lannister was many things—a show-woman above all else. She would grace the halls of Winterfell with splendor and beauty, she would take this dull gray mass and turn it into something spectacular. If Eddard Stark refused her, he would see just how sharp a lioness's claws could be.

* * *

"Have you ever visited the North my lady?" Eddard Stark inquired as he led her around some forested area of mud, leaves, and cold. Cersei was less than impressed with his tourist destination but had smiled politely and agreed to taking the walk. Anything to get away from the cold gray walls of her soon-to-be home.

"I have not, my lord." Cersei finally replied, drawing her fur lined burgundy cloak closer to her body. "The farthest North I've ever been is Golden Tooth, which stands as firmly South as any region below the Neck." She added lightly, fighting to suppress her irritation when Stark's long, solemn face showed no change in emotion. By the Seven, she was going to end up _killing_ him before their wedding day if he insisted on acting like a block of frigid ice. Plastering on her prettiest smile, Cersei gestured towards the bare white trees. "How is it you find yourself so at ease in the cold, my lord? Has the chill not yet pierced your skin or have you simply become accustomed to winter's bite, living here at the edge of the world?"

"Perhaps it is simply because I am a Northman, Lady Cersei. We Starks have guarded this region for centuries and I suppose the ice must have made its way into our veins."

To prove his point, a hearty ice gale came blowing their way and Cersei was ever so grateful for her fur lined kidskin gloves, lest her fingertips turn blue as the winter rose. She fought against her body's shivering, refusing to allow her future husband to see her in such a state. Instead, Cersei stood proudly, her golden hair glimmering under the cold Northern sun—the final kiss of summer. She continued on, ignoring how Lord Stark seemed to have paused—whether to gather his wits or to admire his damnable forest, Cersei didn't much care.

"Have you led us into your godswood then?" She inquired, voice harsh and unsuitable for court use. "This is where your gods reside?"

Lord Stark caught up with her, his black and gray leather blending right into their surroundings. "The godswood belongs to all us Northerners, not just myself. You are welcome to visit anytime as well, my lady."

 _As if I have anything to say to your weeping sap trees._ Cersei thought scornfully. Didn't this fool realized she'd been raised in the faith of the Seven? Not that she'd ever been a dutiful witness to prayer or devotion but still. It was _her_ faith, didn't he have the least bit of respect for Southern tradition? _Just as I thought,_ Cersei all but triumphed, _these Northmen are savages. Unfit to be seen at court. No wonder the Targaryens gave them their land so readily. Who wishes to rule a barren wilderness of nothing but dead trees and snow?_

"My lady?" Lord Stark's grave, serious voice interrupted her revere.

Cersei paused. They'd stopped at what looked like an unfinished gazebo. The roof still needed tiling and the pillars were not quite sanded down; furthermore, the effigies were crudely done, _utterly_ unpainted, and—

"I had hoped for this to be an early wedding present but the snows prevented further construction." He said, voice still pensive but tinged with apology. "The sept will be yours."

 _What?_ Cersei's emerald green eyes widened, surprise flashing across her lovely countenance.

A sept. She had not expected the Northerner to do something so… _considerate_. How very strange. Was this part of the dowry agreement made between him and father? Yet she did not think Tywin Lannister to be the sort of man who cared for his daughter's immortal soul. In fact, he'd all but forbidden their presence in the sept after he caught Jaime praying to the Mother after Lady Joanna's death.

"It is not as grand as the septs you're used to I'm sure but it's been built with the finest Northern ash wood and will hold up in rain, snow, or hail."

"I…yes. This is most accommodating, Lord Stark." She managed. Her pride refusing to let her show too much gratitude but that traitorous, sympathetic part of her was… _pleased_ …that he'd made his men come out into this cold expanse of land to build her a sept. She would not use it often but the fact that it was _hers_ …

His hand gently brushed against Cersei's lower back, causing her to turn about and face him. In the pale afternoon light, with a clear blue sky, Eddard Stark did not seem so gray.

"My lady—"

"Cersei." She interrupted. "If we are to become husband and wife, I should like you to call me Cersei."

"Cersei." He tested, voice still grave and low and solemn—nothing like her Jaime's roguish cadence or Rhaegar's melodic tone…but somehow, it made her name sound… _regal_. Full of nobility and grace, commanding respect without prompt. She rather liked it. "Then might I ask you call me Ned? It is what my friends and family have called me since I was a boy."

She gave him a faint smile. "Very well but do not expect me to call you such a common name in public. There you shall be my lord husband Eddard Stark and I shall address you as such." She declared, taking his proffered arm.

Yet as Cersei adjusted her cloak, pondering the state her shoes must be in, she missed the faint hint of a smile on cold Ned Stark's mouth.

But such an act was a silent blessing—Cersei was, without question, an arrogant young lioness; and should she have realized the affect she already had on her dutiful husband…well. She may as well crown herself queen of the North with all the impulse and vice of her house intact.

But that was not to be.

* * *

 _My dearest sister—_

 _By now I am sure you have made that Northern dominion your own, ruling with a crown of ice and a scepter of roses. Nay—pardon the error—a scepter of diamonds . There, much better isn't it? I suppose I must wish you congratulations on your marriage to dour old Ned Stark, being your devoted brother and such, but I fear I do not quite care for the man or anything he represents. So I will settle for wishing you good morrow (or whenever this blasted raven decides to find you) and hope that the North has not taken away the red of your lips or the fire in your eyes. (Now that I write this, it seems rather foolish—you'd sooner claw out the Stranger's eyes than be turned into winter's pet.)_

 _Casterly Rock is all well and good—it's still standing and more gold comes pouring out of the mines. Copper has been discovered in a dried gold mine, prompting the creation of cheap trinkets for the smallfolk—whatever they pay, we take. It is the lion's way. Yet I also feel obligated to mention father's steel creation. Certainly something to behold—stronger than even iron and shines in the sunlight. Silver. Quite lovely—perhaps I ought to create a dagger for you to carry? Inlay it with rubies and emeralds and see what old Ned Stark thinks when you clutch it in the martial bed?_

 _Robert Baratheon and just about every other knight wants steel—greedy lot they are. Want. Want. Want. Tyrion calls them a great gaggle of oversized, slobbering children—they all fit the criteria but lack the child's sense. It matters little to father, who now thinks himself the Steel King. Fine title, hm? It should be. Uncle Kevan thought of it and told me, and I in turn told him that it made father sound puritanical. Needless to say, Uncle Kevan dropped the moniker (and now all the servants call Lord Tywin the Steel King)._

 _What else is there to say? I have been forced to administer the day-to-day running of the Westerlands alongside father and Tyrion, though he does a much better job than I. To keep me sane, father has allowed me to build a standing Western army to patrol borders and ensure public safety. I don't much care what they do so long as I am able to wield a sword and fight like a solider proper once again._

 _Pray, did I tell you father also wants me to wed? He says I've managed to evade that task for far too long and little brother is positively **gleeful** for my misery. A Hightower is who he's betting I'll end up with and seeing father's keen interest, I don't doubt him. The Hightowers breed daughters as one would feral dogs—bountiful and fertile. If I must wed a bitch at least let it be a pretty one. I'm sure you'd slaughter the poor girl who dares to call herself my bride. Perhaps I'll invite you Starks to my wedding—I'm sure it'll be a warm refresher to whatever icy torment you find yourself in. Oh, did that sound too cynical? Forgive me sweet sister, I meant no offense. In fact, let me rephrase—allow me to invite your noble husband (and yourself) to my wedding feast so that you can experience the stifling heat of propriety again._

 _Better?_

 _Even if it is not I am afraid I must leave you to your Northern company now. It is time to convene with some of the Westerlands lords (a task father has cordially bestowed upon me) before brokering some new shipping routes with the Tullys. Send me a letter back, won't you? I've not heard from you in so long that I've started to think you dead. Or worse—content._

 _Your devoted brother,_

 _Jaime_

* * *

 **A/N: I always thought Cersei could've turned out slightly less paranoid if she was the Lady of Winterfell instead of the Westerosi Queen.**

 **Aaaand I just really love Jaime's audacious snark.**

 **Thoughts? Yay? Nay? Maybe a "what the hell were you thinking" hey?**


	2. Goodness Spent

_My dearest Jaime—_

 _I suppose the time for propriety has come and gone—and summer along with it. Here in the North, everything is like a cavernous and bleak misery which I hope to (at the very least) redecorate. Lord Stark is a man of dull honor but surprising tact and is in possession of some reason. We have begun to map and landscape all the unused land these ignoramus brutes have failed to even look upon in the hopes of finding something useful in this vast wilderness. These "lords of winter" may own half the North but truthfully, dear brother, all they seem to care about is their white trees, their whelped offspring, and this inane notion of "honor" which has now lost meaning. (Truly, they repeat the word at least thrice per sentence. I am so sick of "honor here" and "honor now" that I have half a mind to send them terminology wordbooks. After all, the Westerosi language allows for at least_ _some_ _variation.)_

 _Worst of late is the onset of these winter gales which, I am told, occur at least every few moons. These winds, frosty in their wrath, seem to slip through ever crack of Winterfell and, like the stubborn Stark wolf, binds round me like a vice. I am so heavily covered in furs and cashmere that I feel rather ill at ease leaving the bedroom. The hot springs are a necessity but do not extend as far as the outdoor garrets. A change I must facilitate._

 _At the very least my lord husband keeps to himself and minds his duties well enough. He knows these Northmen and leaves the greater work in my care—if I am to live with this lot for the rest of my life then I will at least make it a comfortable one. I shall_ _not_ _become another Lynesse, the frivolous, silly girl thinking Bear Island could match the riches of Oldtown. Why, at least Winterfell has proper coffers and accounts. (Though civilization **does** seem to creep slowly here, like frozen molasses...yes, dear brother, you have read this correctly—molasses. That disgusting brown syrup the servants drink is actually present in __my_ _dining hall. Honey, I am told, is difficult to come by and expensive to purchase. No matter, I shall procure something better than this rubbish. No Lannister will ever subjugate themselves to eating what the hired help devour.)_

 _What else is there to write other then my discontent? The workload I have taken on has been manageable, though I suppose Maester Luwin is of some help. (These other lords could learn a thing or two from this man who, while tedious, has some sense of reason.) Truly, I wish to rid myself of Lord Stark's allowance as soon as possible—no lioness should have to rely on a pittance. The minute these lands are charted, we shall begin mining and I will have my due. At the very least, I have control over my household. I've heard that the same cannot be said for little Catelyn Tully, isn't that right? Reports of the king's whoring has not ceased in the slightest—foolish woman, what did she expect? A song of Florian and Jonquil?_

 _Pity. Had Robert taken me for a bride, I could have at least held his interest long enough to bear a prince._

 _And, yes. I am very aware of father's martial plans for you, dear brother—a Hightower is the_ _obvious_ _choice. Have you not seen Lord Leyton's overtures? They are as plain as these Northern hills, barren and wanting. You have plenty of choice there brother—all his granddaughters, each a frail little flower petal who wouldn't last a day at the Rock. Perhaps you ought to wed little Célia Hightower? I heard she's a pretty little thing who prefers board games to human company—at least you two would have something in common: mutual detestation. Your wedding is one I shall attend come hell or high-water though, I don't trust anyone else to look over the books while I'm away. You ought to hear how grateful Lord Stark was that I came into his company—the man may be a gray giant but he_ _ **can**_ _recognize capability when he sees it._

 _Alas, this letter has grown long and some Northern bitch has finally arrived with my afternoon tea. Did I tell you of a new substance we have unearthed here? It cures all manner of stomach ailments and purges the body of sickness—I shall be sure to send some to you once we have come up with a name._

 _Affectionately,_

 _Lady Cersei Stark, Wardeness of Winterfell_

* * *

With the letter written, folded, and sealed, Cersei reclined back into her chair and sighed. How she missed her other half! Jaime's sly grins and cheeky quips would bring her some much needed sunshine in this desolate moor of Winterfell but—no.

She closed her eyes.

She couldn't afford distractions at the moment; her mining project was to take top priority and she had vowed that within the first hundred days of her marriage, she would increase trade with White Harbor and expand into Riverrun. It was an enormous amount of pressure but it kept Cersei's mind in focus and was nothing she couldn't handle. After all, she was a Lannister, daughter of Tywin and twin to the Golden Lion.

She would not fail. Lord Stark was depending on her to follow through with the promise—he had few men he could trust and his advisors were (save Maester Luwin) utterly incompetent. Too concerned with the smallfolk and whatever warped sense of honor they chose to focus on that day. She was her lord husband's sole source of reason and pragmatism; even if she was a woman (and a Southern one at that), Lord Eddard had recognized her intelligence and readily gave Cersei what _should_ have been hers at Casterly Rock.

It almost made Cersei gleeful thinking of the control she wielded over her husband while the queen of the Seven Kingdoms floundered in disaster and disarray. King Robert had fathered another bastard—one he'd publicly acknowledged, a boy by the name of Edric Storm. He'd even sent him to his childhood home of Storm's End, as if that didn't breach every accord of etiquette. Catelyn Tully's shame must have been scarlet—after all, for someone whose priorities lay in family, duty, and honor, she had received none from Robert Baratheon. Living in the Red Keep, surrounded by twittering birds and foolish courtiers... being known as the queen who could not satisfy her husband.

Well.

Cersei would never admit it but the news made her smile. Here in the North, she was deferred to with the utmost respect and courtesy. While it may be from some minor noble whose name she couldn't be bothered to remember, it was satisfying all the same. Catelyn Tully may have stolen her crown but Cersei still had all the power.

* * *

The one and only blemish to Cersei's masque of control was a dark haired bastard with a solemn face and gray eyes. He was Northern through and through, with winter in his veins. (His wet-nurse tended to him, shutters still halfway open.) He'd been born during Robert's Rebellion, when every man thought they'd die, and when Eddard Stark had no betrothed. Perhaps he intended to marry his bastard's mother—Cersei didn't know—but he must have cared for the woman to some degree. Why else would a great lord take in a child who he could, by all rights, set aside or even blatantly ignore?

He'd been given the surname Snow and for that Cersei was glad—he could not take away her future children's inheritance but, at the same time…the golden haired lioness did not like seeing a bastard in her castle. She could have him killed—that would be easy: a bit of poison, an open window…the wet-nurse would be executed but that was no weight on Cersei's shoulders. He was barely a year old and his features were already grave; Cersei had looked upon him once and sneered.

What a dull babe. So quiet and pale and reliant.

"We ought to send him away." Cersei first mentioned, after learning of this Jon Snow. They had been sitting across from one another in Lord Stark's solar, him writing at his desk and she reading over the coal production ledger. "There are many lords here that would not mind the honor of raising Lord Stark's bastard." Her voice was sharp, like a precariously balanced blade that would cut if not properly handled. "Send him to that friend of yours—the Reeds. They would not complain over his presence."

"Jon is not going anywhere." The firmness of his tone surprised Cersei, causing her to glance up at her usually stoic husband. "He is my blood and Winterfell is his home."

"So it is mine the moment you put that direwolf cloak over my shoulders." She sniped back, irritated with his manner. "You have no reason to keep him here and I do not _want_ him here."

"He will be kept out of sight, my lady."

"I don't care if he's to be locked away in Winterfell's tower for all eternity—do you realize the message this sends to your vassals? It tells them that you don't think me capable of bearing your children and it weakens the resolve of your allies. Oh Lord Stark, the man who takes in bastards because they have nowhere to go. Let us see how we can play on his mercy and goodwill until he lies ten feet below the earth, his wife hung, and his children dead."

"I highly doubt that this is the direction their thoughts have gone." His voice was still firm, still full of conviction, but there was an undercurrent of amusement seeping in.

Cersei seethed.

"You don't know what your bannermen think. What about the Karstarks? They're bitter and stubborn and have far too much pride. They won't hesitate to cut your throat if you give them reason to."

"Has a single infant given them cause to march on their liege lord? If so, wars would be fought the minute babes were born and men would be executed while still in their night clothes." He sounded placating. Responsibly kind.

She wanted to claw his eyes out.

"If you would prefer to see your name smeared by those below you, so be it. But remember—I am now your wife and have no intention of seeing my name destroyed."

Lord Stark looked up, face unreadable though there was a certain light in his dark gray eyes. "Your name?"

"I married you, did I not? I took on the name Stark when we wed and as a lioness, I shall suffer no humiliation." _Father would not tolerate it._ _ **I**_ _will not tolerate it._ "You can believe in the goodness of men but I know their true nature. We are a herd of selfish creatures, Lord Stark, each vying for the highest branch, dying to eat the ripest fruit for the betterment of ourselves. You have been raised to believe in a world that doesn't exist—one of foolish fancy and idealistic glory too serene for human existence." Her eyes flashed. "I have been taught better."

"Yes. Lord Tywin knows how to instruct the depravity of man, does he not?" He returned, his entire posture rigid and jaw clenched; right hand still clutching a gray feathered quill in righteous indignation.

Cersei bristled. "If you dare to insinuate—"

"I insinuated nothing, my lady. I merely agreed with your assessment. Let us kill our vassals and murder children, for that is the Lannister way is it not?"

She closed the ledger forcefully, disregarding all semblance of calm as she glared stonily at the winter lord. How dare he suppose that _she_ was below _him_? The man had never played the game of thrones a day in his life, having always lived in seclusion and the wonderful fantasy land of _honor_ and _duty_ and _virtue_.

"You may believe in the goodness of man all you like, Lord Stark," she snarled, "but I am not so blind. What would you have done to vassals who dared to rise in rebellion, dared to take the title that was rightfully yours? Who would no doubt bring calamity, famine, destruction, rape, and murder with a selfish war? You want to see children orphaned and fathers dying just to sate your own selfish desire for _honor_?" Cersei was trembling now, fury radiating from her as hot and red as the crimson sun. "My lord father prevented a civil war and kept his people safe. His methods may have sullied your white pride but two unsavory houses were suppressed and the Westerlands flourished. Can you say the same of the North?"

His jaw tightened. "My lady—"

"No." Cersei stood, ledger tucked under her left arm as she looked down at the Lord of Winterfell. "You want to preach to me integrity without first having played the game. You have not experienced King's Landing—you do not know what survival is when there are appearances to uphold, finances to keep, promises to retain, debts to pay, and power to consolidate. You do not know Lannister honor, my lord husband, and I doubt you ever will." She gave him a short curtsey before heading towards the door, pausing before her hand touched the heavy oak. "You may despise me all you like, Lord Stark, but do not dare question the actions of my father."

"And you believe the slaughtering of innocent children justified, Lady Cersei?" Lord Stark's voice cut through the air—heavy with the weight of a war hammer.

Cersei straightened, eyes still fixed on the door. "In the case of Prince Rhaegar's children…yes, I do."

A bitter laugh left Ned Stark's lips—one Cersei almost didn't recognize. It was too mired to pain…full of something she could not quite comprehend.

"What could have Rhaenys and Aegon done to the great Tywin Lannister? What could have gentle Princess Elia do? The throne was Robert's, there was no need to kill those who had no need or want for the crown."

"So you can see into the hearts of royalty?" Cersei countered, discomfort creeping down her spine...cold and uneasy—a sliver of liquid glass. "Aegon could have led an army and retaken the throne once he came of age—he could have disturbed peace and caused another civil war. It was best to be cautious."

"We could have sent them across the Narrow Sea alongside their uncle and aunt. We could have prevented disaster without murder."

"Well you weren't there to make the decision now were you?" Cersei whirled around suddenly, rage and frustration bubbling to the surface. "You weren't there—you didn't know how my father felt or how anyone felt. You don't know! Did you think killing Ashara Dayne's brother was right? If you loved the Targaryens so much why did you march to war alongside Robert Baratheon? Why did you kill Prince Rhaegar's friends, his companions—the Kingsguard? Was that moral and justified and pretty?" The anger she felt was overwhelming, like a tidal wave that was forcing her under. Each time she tried to break to the surface, to take a breath of air, another wave rolled over and Cersei was held under again. She felt helplessly overwhelmed, furiously disappointed in both her husband and herself.

She wanted to stomp her foot and break something made of glass—something that would shatter immediately. "You don't know what you would've done because you weren't there and I was not there and neither were your Northmen or soldiers or—" Her words were coming out so jumbled and quick that Cersei herself couldn't quite make them out.

She was screaming underwater, barely cognizant of the arms that came to wrap around her form until she felt her cheek being pressed against cool leather.

"Forgive me my lady. I should not have taken my frustration out on you." She heard Lord Stark whisper, his voice so low and quiet that Cersei was surprised she could even make them out. "I fear I let myself get away, an irredeemable act and…" he trailed off, silence filling the room. His hands—large and calloused—rubbed soothing circles down Cersei's back.

She heard a sniffle and briefly wondered if— _no_.

Cersei blinked in shock. Was…was she _crying?_ What on...for Seven's sake!—with one hand, Cersei tried to scrub away her tears, embarrassment washing over her. What had happened? How on earth did she come into such a state? Tears? Crying? She was not a child and _Seven_ —her lord father would die of shame if he saw her now.

Whimpering in the arms of a _Northerner_.

A hot flush came over Cersei's cheeks and she wanted nothing more than to fall to the ground and have it swallow her whole.

Instead, she forced her eyes to meet those of her lord husband's—dark and gray and sorrowful.

She probably looked a mess too.

"I…" Cersei started and then cleared her throat, angry at her traitorous voice for that initial tremor. "I must return to my own solar now, Lord Stark. Maester Luwin will need to reference these sums and…and I believe I have overstayed my welcome."

"Never." The word was executed so swiftly, so bluntly, that Cersei paused entirely.

She had never heard Lord Stark speak with such…passion.

"You have been more than gracious with your help, my lady. The knowledge you bring from the Westerlands—the pains you have taken to improve land that, by all rights, you did not have to spare a second glance at. You have invested your dowry to improving the North when you could have spent it on things more befitting a lady." Lord Stark stepped back and... _bowed_ before Cersei—it was short and informal but…

It washed away Cersei's anger. Burned away the remains of her shame.

She felt, in that moment, invincible.

Almost instinctively, Cersei reached for her husband's shoulder, bidding him to rise. Their eyes met.

A hundred different thoughts came to Cersei's mind but there was only one thing she truly needed to say.

"If it please you," she said, voice careful and sweet, "I should like to purchase some Myrish lace. A wife must always look pretty for her lord husband, must she not?"

This time, she did not miss the smile that appeared on his lips.

* * *

When Cersei next saw his solemn face, she did not find it entirely unappealing.

* * *

 _Dearest sis—_

 _This letter is short, brief, and utterly devoid of regalia but it needs to be writ. Father has chosen a bride for me. A Hightower (Tyrion laughed for hours when he heard this and I had to pay him a hundred gold dragons). Baelor's youngest daughter, Célia. From what I've heard she's small, quiet, rude, spoiled, and enjoys cyvasse more than an 80 year old maester. Father's livid—he wanted Baelor's eldest, Lady Alicent (who at least looks like she's seen the sun), but Robert's already promised that girl to his brother, Renly. (Shame old Leyton will never get a great grandson out of her.)_

 _Must go now—riding to Oldtown soon to scope out the bride (and see if kidnapping is needed)._

 _Ever yours,_

 _Jaime_

* * *

 **A/N: Story will be formatted in a drabble series style. I wasn't planning on continuing this but my Cersei muse wouldn't stop until I did so...**

 **Yes, I've always thought a younger Cersei would be more hotheaded and outwardly impulsive while Ned would be somewhat charmed/suspicious/intrigued by his golden bride. She's also got a healthy ego on her and in my view, if Cersei had just been given the chance to do some administrative work (with proper guidance of course, cue Maester Luwin) she might've turned out halfway decent. (And Ned is a hell of a lot more indulgent/understanding than Robert.)**

 **I don't know if I'll continue with the Jaime getting married plotline but his letters will continue! (And I need an excuse to see Ned in the Westerlands.)**

 **Thanks to all who yay'd this! Give me your thoughts! Oui ou non?**


	3. The Dance

_Dearest sister, dear—_

 _Due to this damnable weather, Tyrion and I have been waylaid at Goldengrove—a town of apple trees and rice patty farmers. We are, of course, so thrilled to see these wondrous sights—what a delight it has been, journeying down from the Westerlands to the Reach. Astounding. Countryside life certainly has its charms—Tyrion's flask has now manifested into a pitiable roadway squire we've picked up (poor boy's carrying nearly three jugs of Dornish Red) and even slaughtering bandits has grown dull. If this is the custom dear Lady Hightower has grown up with, then I am sure we will have little to speak of once we come into each other's company._

 _Perhaps she can keep Aunt Genna's attentions. (Tyrion says this is a horrible idea though I can't see why. The worst Aunt Genna could do is—well. Alright, I suppose little brother has a point.)_

 _We've found lodging at the Roseflower Inn, a voluptuous seraglio of whores, drunks, and the second sons of minor lords. Everything is velvet, Cersei— **everything** . Were man to be kept prisoner in such a perfumed harem, one of two things would happen. They would either go mad and decide to take their chances with the sellswords on the road **or** the velvet folds and plush drapery would remind them of something else entirely. Scriptural and wholly **carnal** . I thought you'd appreciate this—I can't have my darling sister's wanton beauty frozen by the cold piety of the North, now can I?_

 _Alas, alas things are as dull as ever—though I suppose having the freedom to move about is one perk of leaving the Kingsguard. I realize I shall never become a mirror of Ser Arthur Dayne, not after I shoved that damned sword through Aerys Targaryen's back. You've never once asked me about that bit of history—is it because you do not wish to know or because your righteous husband deems such news unsavory? After all, you've married the most noble and ethical of all lords—much like marriage to a wooden log, I'm assuming._

 _Once this storm clears, I'll sneak to Winterfell and rescue you. In fact, I'll trade my horse for a dappled white steed so we can ride off into the sunset (sea) and be one with the drowned god's merfolk._

 _But now I must, once again, cut this letter short. Little brother is stumbling back and I am certain he will mistake my room for his (again) and attempt to offer me a comely whore with high teats and a pretty smile._

 _Keep your chin up, dear sis, for you shall see Casterly Rock soon enough. I am to marry Célia Hightower in two moons time, whether I despise her or not. She may get along quite well with Tyrion seeing their keen interest in books and sharp words—the little girl once made her septa cry, did you know that? The things you learn here in the Reach._

 _Fondest regards my golden sis,_

 _Jaime (I'm not drunk. I swear…though I've never been one to keep promises)_

* * *

"You're sure?" Cersei prompted, emerald eyes glittering as she looked into the serene gaze of Maester Luwin, his wrinkled old face warm with joy. "I cannot inform my husband of my pregnancy only for it to be a fluke—a mistake of the maester."

"I assure you my lady, you are most certainly with child." He smiled patiently. "Quite a bit along as well. Perhaps near three months, give or take a week."

Cersei's bejeweled hand fell to her lower stomach, fingertips caressing the cashmere of her dress. She was silent.

"The Stark line is a fertile one, my lady." Maester Luwin added. "This child shall come to term so long as you maintain your own health and wellbeing."

"Well I don't intend on participating in any tourneys, maester." Cersei snapped back, feeling somewhat insulted that he would suggest such a thing. "This is the future heir to Winterfell. My— _our_ child." She corrected quickly. _Though more mine than Eddard Stark's. This child shall grow in me and it shall be my body giving him or her life._ She silently mused, a faint smile curving on her painted red mouth. "A baby…I must write and inform my lord father. He will want to know about his future grandchild."

Maester Luwin bowed respectfully. "Of course my lady. I shall leave you to it then."

"Return in half an hour, maester. We need to evaluate the land east of Wolfswood. If the north has oil reserves, then so does the surrounding area. All this will then be refined by House Lannister until we build our own refineries, is that understood?"

"And the lumber?"

"Send as much of it down South as you possibly can. King Robert is only granting us more income while he continues to rebuild the Red Keep to his liking."

Maester Luwin hesitated. "My lady the road is not suited for travel at this very moment. The ice storm—"

"Then we will improve navigation and pave our roads with stone." Cersei clasped her hands in front of her womb, eyes sharp and irritation growing. "The very first thing my father did when he became Lord of Casterly Rock was to repair all the roads in the Westerlands. He built bridges and toll passages for taxation purposes and cut down the forests near these roads to ensure clarity and smooth travel. The North has been backward for far too long, Maester Luwin. I intend to make this land a worthy piece of inheritance for my son."

The old maester smiled. "I have no doubt, my lady, that you shall leave behind something spectacular."

* * *

Cersei entered Jon Snow's nursery with determined indifference. The child was sleeping peacefully in his cradle, as calm as a drifting snowflake. Cersei looked right—the nursemaid was asleep in her chair, chin meeting chest as her mouth drooped open, snores lightly audible.

 _Fine Northern care._ Cersei sneered, walking closer towards the crib. She couldn't decide if she wanted the boy dead, gone, or missing—the first two options were preferable though Cersei could also stomach the child being thrown into the Wolfswood wilderness. He wouldn't last an hour and it would solve all her problems. Oh, it wasn't as if Cersei was threatened by the presence of this bastard boy—Tywin Lannister, by hook or by crook, would see his grandson as Warden of the North—but having another woman's child raised under her roof? Why, it broke every law of polite society and dammit, wasn't Eddard Stark all about _honor_ and _virtue_ and _dignity_?

This was the annoyance that boiled inside Cersei—churning, angry, and wounded. She supposed it wouldn't have been very honorable to allow the little bastard to die in his mother's arms but many great kings had thrown aside their illegitimate children for the sake of peace and reason. Cersei sincerely hoped Ned Stark was not another Aegon IV—his… _kindness_ had led to five rebellions and numerous civil war skirmishes now engraved on the surcoat of history.

But, then again, Cersei grimaced, it wasn't as if the North was _that_ great a prize. Still all ice, snow, coal, and gloom—more profitable ice, snow, coal, and gloom but depressing nonetheless.

Suddenly, before Cersei could sweep out of the room in a most regal fashion, the blasted babe stirred. One pale, chubby fist came to rub his sleepy eyes, his little mouth forming a delicate 'o' as he yawned. Cersei hesitated—just for a moment.

But it was enough.

Jon Snow's Northern eyes locked on her own—gray and emerald, looking each other down. She didn't know whether to break contact and leave or to wake the nursemaid—perhaps the child was just hungry? Peckish? Cersei didn't know the first thing about infants (much less bastard infants) and had no idea what they wanted. Mayhap a toy?

She edged a little closer, not wanting to come too near for fear of any screaming. Children, particularly babies, were notoriously fussy and unpredictable—Cersei remembered Tyrion as a child: cooing and laughing one minute, screaming like a banshee the next.

Lecherous little stump.

Instead, Jon Snow kept quiet though he watched her well—never flinching even as Cersei's movements began to pick up. She was only a foot away from him before he lifted both chubby arms into the air.

Cersei raised a brow. _What are **you** trying to mimic?_ Perhaps the boy was daft, attempting to look like a tower. What did he expect her to do?

"You're not hungry are you?" Cersei inquired in a hushed whisper. "If you are, then I suggest you wait until your wet-nurse decides to pay you a visit. Come now, put those arms of yours down. Tuck them under the blankets before you fall ill and my lord husband decides to blame me for your idiocy. No, no." Cersei shook her head, annoyed. "What are you doing you stupid little boy?" Instead of heeding her sagacious words of wisdom, the child waved his little fists—still quiet and solemn, but now a little more curious.

She rolled her eyes. "For the Seven…put your arms _under_ the furs. Come now you little barbarian—tuck yourself in."

He did not.

"Fine. Far be it from me to deny you your death wish—I'm sure the Stranger would love to see you before your time. Good day." Cersei sniffed, lifting her chin into the air, prepared to walk away as if nothing had happened.

The child began to squirm in his cradle, his fussy movements shifting the loose bundle of furs and cashmere further down his waist. Now his pale little chest was exposed and so were the sides of his stomach.

Cersei paused as the babe continued to move his little arms in the air, almost annoyed that she wasn't picking up on whatever hint he was trying to give her.

"Oh you impetuous little brat." Cersei huffed irritably, storming over to the damned cradle at long last. With one hand she grabbed the pelts and furs, roughly shoving them until they were near Jon Snow's chin. "There. Now you are covered. Go back to sleep, child."

Once again, he did not listen. He rocked side to side, causing the blankets to fall down to his waist, his little balled fists hitting the edge of the discarded furs.

Cersei blinked, incredulous. _Why the audacity! How dare he! Here I am, Cersei, daughter of Tywin and wife of Eddard Stark, Warden of the North, and this little no name bastard wants me to **tuck him in**? I've never met another human being half so spoiled and outrageous and proud—_

In her anger, Cersei's hands had begun to move on their own accord, going to adjust, wrap, pinch, and fold the blankets around Jon's tiny, pale body.

 _Look at him! All dark haired and white faced—he looks like a little fool. A little jester meant for entertaining nobles, nothing more, nothing less. If this child dares to live to manhood, I shall have Ned ship him to the Wall— **that** is where he shall live out the remainder of his days, guarding a frozen terrace of wind, ice, and snow! There'll be no one there to tuck him in and he shall have to make do. That will teach him to be ungrateful towards **my** methods, the little—_

"Ah!" The baby cooed gently, snuggling deeper into the cocoon of warmth and comfort that Cersei had created.

Looking down, the golden haired lioness realized she had expertly and unintentionally tucked little Jon Snow in—arms and all.

"Did…did he just…?" Cersei blinked again. "Why you _manipulative_ little ice-man." She slighted, voice imperious though her cold, hard eyes had softened—just a fraction—at the sight of Jon's eyes fluttering shut.

Within moments, he was asleep.

"I was right." Cersei mused. "All you do is sleep, pout, and live in a castle not of your own design." One delicate golden finger came to trace Jon's pale cheek. "How small you are."

 _He wasn't hungry at all._ A voice in the back of her head murmured. _All he wanted was a bit of attention._

And for some bizarre, inexplicable reason—the thought made her smile.

* * *

Over supper that night, Cersei mentioned how Jon Snow ought to have a new nursemaid.

"The one he has now is completely incompetent—why, I walked in on the wretched woman when she was fast asleep, can you imagine? Just laying there like a dead mare, sleeping and drooling. Your guards could use some work." Cersei took a sip of wine and blanched. _What in the Seven is this shit? Absolutely disgusting. I suppose I will have to import my own caskets until we can plant a vineyard in the glass gardens here. Oh, so much work to do in this barren, frozen wasteland!_

Ned Stark was unperturbed by Cersei's grimace. (Or perhaps simply so used to it he saw no difference in calling her out.) "I assure you, my lady, that the guards here at Winterfell are well trained and capable of protecting you. You need not worry about—"

"Then explain to me why I found no such guards posted at the door of your bastard." Cersei cut in sharply, fork raised. "I am not a woman who lives by faith alone, Ned Stark—you would do well to remember that. I expect tangible, visible proof and so far, I have not seen any. You speak of fine guards and good Northmen but all I've seen are lazy nursemaids who can't be bothered to keep their mouths closed while they sleep—" Lord Stark did his best to repress a smile "—and nonexistent guards who are supposed to _protect me._ "

"Would you like for me to assign Ser Jory Cassel to shadow you, my lady? I am sure a lioness of your caliber would enjoy being hounded by one of my best men."

"No." Cersei brought the fork down on a large chunk of beef, spearing it clean through. "I want you to post some guards outside your bastard's door."

Her husband's eyes widened, just a fraction. "I…I did not realize Jon was such a concern of yours, Cersei. Forgive me, of course I shall remedy this oversight. Thank you for bringing it to me attention." His tone was sincere and a faint little smile was on his lips—a rare one, full of gentle gratitude.

Cersei stiffened. "Yes, well. I simply do not like to leave any part of this castle unattended. It's a reflection of my abilities as a wife, you know. Everything must be kept in strict order or else a household will collapse."

"You speak as if you know from experience."

She chewed carefully, using this time to regroup. "Perhaps not firsthand." Cersei swallowed, dabbing at the corner of her mouth with a napkin. "But I have heard tales of what can happen when a lord's stronghold lacks procedure and precedent." Her father had brought down Tarbeck and Castamere for their intrepid attempt at rebellion, destroying them utterly and completely.

No Lannister would ever be questioned, no mockery directed towards the lions. She would ensure that this authority be implemented within House Stark as well—she would see to it that each child she bore her husband would be given the utmost respect; the smallfolk would bow and the lords would admire.

Seeing the look of determined certainty on his lady wife's (beautiful) countenance, Ned picked up his own knife and fork, expression neutral. "Have you ever climbed to the top of the East Tower, my lady?" He inquired pleasantly, voice mild and smooth. "When one is up there, the sky has never been so clear and the stars—never so bright."

 _Um. Certainly not._ Cersei wanted to retort brashly. _Why in the name of the Mother would I be standing outside in the freezing cold at **night**?_

"Here in the North you can see stars that are of different colors entirely—some of topaz and canary yellow, others of the palest apple blossom pink. But each one shines, clearly and without fault." He was an austere man of few words and even fewer graces. To hear his description—one that sounded as if it came from somewhere deep in his heart—piqued Cersei's curiosity.

"Now you sound as if you are speaking from experience, Ned."

He shrugged. "We wolves must have some use—even if we cannot man the books as well as a lioness."

A bout of brief, spontaneous laughter left her lips, surprising Cersei completely. After marrying Ned Stark, she thought the only thing that would bring a smile to her face was force of interest. Or guileful courtesy.

Never genuine amusement.

From across the dining table, Ned Stark ducked his head but Cersei didn't miss the faint blush on his cheeks.

He had made her laugh.

* * *

 _My dearest Jaime—_

 _My, do you sound the sullen child—sulking and moping as you make your way into Oldtown. I too wish that I could be there, if only to see your reaction upon meeting little Célia Hightower. But I do not write this letter to talk about her; rather, the focus shall be on me, singularly._

 _I carry the Northman's child, your future nephew and I expect you to promise your devotion to his protection. Even if you are in the Westerlands and I am adrift here, you **must** promise to care for him. I shall not let my son be raised by a pack of wolves and a phalanx of frozen imbeciles. Though Ned Stark claims his honor is his greatest prize, he is also mighty fond of his bastard—the bastard that I am forced to raise in Winterfell. Who is that boy's mother? I want you to find out for me Jaime. I want you to find the dead woman who mothered this boy. I suspect Ashara Dayne—venture to Starfall and confirm it for me, won't you Jaime? After your visit to Oldtown is over?_

 _Even in these early stages of pregnancy, I am tired and weary. This letter was meant to last more than a few pages but it seems as if my hand cannot write on its own accord. Tell me when you've accomplished your task, won't you?_

 _\- Cersei_

* * *

 **A/N: Another segment, another drabble. Next chapter will include Jaime, Tyrion, and Oldtown (whether through letters or third person, I'm not sure yet). Maybe I'll throw in a baby!Margaery too.**

 **What are your thoughts on the Cersei & Jon scene? I always thought Cersei would be quite funny when dealing with children since most don't understand her manipulations. **

**Feedback welcomed.**


	4. Unlabouring Stars

Jaime despised the sharp, salty scent of the sea. He despised the grand, vermillion and gold ship his father had granted him after Jaime requested that he be allowed to "adventure" before settling down and marrying Célia Hightower. Jaime despised the standing army (the same one he'd built from the ground up) that had been forced to accompany him. And most of all, Jaime despised—with a passion as hot as Balerion's fire—how he had acquiesced to his sister's blithe demand so easily.

 _Venture to Starfall, won't you Jaime?_ So recklessly asked, as if it were no challenge at all.

Didn't Cersei realize? She was his _twin,_ his other half—the part he loved more than himself. And she'd thrown him aside in favor of Ned fucking Stark; a barbarous, fiendish philistine. That's all he was, Jaime convinced himself, a brute who'd locked his golden sister away in a tower of frost and ice. _But, w_ _ho was he kidding? Cersei would never submit so meekly to any man—not even_ _ **me**_ _._ She had to fend for herself, Jaime knew, had to insure her position as the Warden of the North's wife. Consolidate your power, father always said, establish a firm rule with dynamic results before anything else occurs. That had been part of the Lannister manifesto he and Cersei had been forced to memorize at the tender age of 8.

Cersei excelled in her studies, taking father's every word to heart. Jaime much preferred his sword fighting, beating every knight that came his way; he thought knowledge was better accumulated through travel and so far, Tywin Lannister hadn't disagreed. The golden lion turned to Tyrion for administration, Tygett for reason, Kevan for support, and Tywin for motivation. Recently, Jaime had perfected his act as the gilded son—the noble knight rising to the occasion, as proud and wonderful as his predecessors (or at least the ones Tywin chose to commemorate).

It explained his wretched unease quite well. So far, all Jaime wanted to do was brandish a sword and cut open an opponent's throat—all pent up anger and simmering frustration—what was he supposed to do? _Cersei_ was gone, forcibly gelded to the North while he was on a bloody fucking ship to Starfall. Yet it was not _Starfall_ —not just yet, Jaime remembered bitterly. That slimy bearded captain had apologized profusely, parroting how _we must dock at Evenfall Hall_ to fucking rest for the night—the man made up so many excuses that Jaime was close to strangling him.

Evenfall Hall. A small keep on some island by the name of Tarth—sapphire, people praised, that's how blue the water was. It made no difference how nice the waves were; the distance was merely a representation of Jaime's heart, stretched thin and weary. He was close to collapsing now; Cersei had always been his source of strength. A beautiful, sunbeam reservoir of loveliness and ardor; she burned carmine and radiated sin. She was every man's temptress but Jaime's to keep—or she _had_ been, at any rate.

Now she was being fucked by frigid old Ned Stark and, by some hellish turn, was carrying the iceman's heir.

And here he was, on a ship, sailing to Starfall to soothe his twin's fears. Interesting how he was the brother and not the husband.

 _The gods do love to play._

* * *

"Be _still_ you devilish street urchin!" Cersei struggled, her arms clasped around Jon Snow's wriggling form as the little bastard attempted to climb out of her grasp. "You'll fall to your death!" She warned irritably, cheeks flushed with exertion as she attempted to keep him from toppling to the ground. "Your brain will splatter all over the floor and do you know how difficult it is to scrub up blood? You'll have ruined my color scheme before I even start, you ungrateful brat." With great effort, Cersei managed to sit down on the neatly made bed adjacent to Jon's crib.

The baby cooed delightedly, little fists coming up to grab Cersei's golden hair.

"Oh no you don't!" Her hands flew to Jon Snow's wrists, yanking both arms up so his chubby little palms were held emptily to the air. "You're not going to ruin my braids—do you know how long Cerena spent on them? I've a meeting with Roose Bolton soon and you, little brat, are not invited."

He squealed again, giggling as Cersei shook his arms lightly. His little feet, bundled up in cashmere, began to stomp excitedly on her lap.

She frowned. "Stop trampling on my gown! I command—oh, what's the use? You're just going to give me all sorts of trouble aren't you?"

"Mmh, ha!"

Cersei took that as an oath of agreement.

* * *

The Great Hall at Winterfell was a heather grey rectangular mass. The minstrels' gallery was simple and unadorned; the pillars supporting said gallery were unadorned; even the tapestries were tiresome: direwolves, pine trees, blank winter scenes.

 _Winter is coming._

The high arched hammerbeam roof spanned the entire length of the hall but it was _plain_ —painted a dark shade of green which, Cersei supposed, looked a bit like a running forest. To be quite frank, she didn't _dislike_ the Great Hall—but it sure as hell could have looked a lot nicer.

Standing in the midst of the wide chamber, Cersei debated on ordering new tapestries from Lannisport—something festive, something _colorful._ There was so much potential after all: a forested scene containing mischievous faes and their fairy queen; an inky cobalt night with a shining silver moon and thousands of intricate shimmering stars woven from sea pearls and cloth-of-silver thread. Wolves and prey would run overhead, down the emerald green thicket, overflowing with rose bushes and perhaps, faraway, a glistening pale blue pond would be depicted.

Cersei Lannister would have ordered a dozen of those tapestries in a heartbeat.

Cersei Stark could not—nearly all of her dowry had been spent on building new trade routes between Winterfell and White Harbor; improving mining conditions; digging for crude oil…there wasn't much left to spend on decor. It pained Cersei to actually pay heed to her finances like a common noblewoman but, she sighed, it was worth seeing her grim faced husband smile every time he walked out of his office. Honestly, she didn't know what that even _mattered,_ everything she was doing, she was doing for their son—the future Lord of Winterfell. She intended to give him an inheritance that no house would sneer at; he would be the finest gentleman at court and the fiercest warrior in battle. He would be everything Jaime was not and everything Jaime was.

And perhaps he would take after his father in some respects as well. Polite. Possessing gravitas. Indulgent. It would have been nice to discuss this situation with Ned Stark himself—had Cersei actually informed him of her pregnancy.

* * *

 **One Week Prior:**

It was one of those cobalt nights when the sky seemed to hold clear—midnight and dark with faint silvery clouds. The hour was late and Cersei was tired—it'd been a very trying day with Lord Karstark (that old miserable bastard) who _insisted_ that if she, Cersei Stark—wife of his liege lord, wished to build a road through the town of Karhold then _he_ needed a larger cut in the toll taxes. That selfish, thankless piece of complete _shit_ had the audacity to demand a higher cut in profit even though he was unwilling to spare a single dragon towards the building of such roads, bridges, or wayside inns.

How her husband tolerated the Karstark mob was a mystery. In fact, Cersei grimaced, she even preferred the Umber family to these insensible buffoons. While Greatjon Umber was a large, blustering ox with more brawn than brain, he was relentlessly loyal and respected Cersei on sight (though he had become somewhat impudent after a few cups and initially thought of her as nothing more than a pretty pearl ornament). But, she could manipulate the oaf easily enough and his son was positively enamored with her already—trotting to and fro, fetching Cersei whatever she needed.

In fact, she'd had quite a bit of fun playing all these northmen like cyvasse pieces. They were far less shrewd than the westerners of her father's keep and immeasurably less keen than those in King's Landing. Opposition in the North seemed like an utterly foreign concept and despite Lord Bolton's pale cunning and her husband's too trusting nature, the Lady of Winterfell felt certain of her power.

If there was one thing she wanted other than being crowned queen of Westeros, it was the unfiltered respect of those around her. Being seen as an intellectual and military power was a truth Tywin Lannister wrought with an almost vindictive passion and now, in her prime, Cersei desired the same. She was a strong, proud lioness who would gladly feign being part of the pack if it meant getting what she wanted. And what she wanted, above all else, was power.

True, genuine power. Not the silly, frivolous command of some consort who organized pointless garden parties (because they were too stupid for the political gala) and tittered with empty headed ladies-in-waiting (because the Small Council flew high above their comprehension). No—Cersei Lannister would not become a footnote in some other man's history book.

She would carve out her epithet in gold and quill, inscribing her name for all to see—for all to remember. So that one day, a thousand years from now, a student of philosophy would read the text that had _her_ name, _her_ achievements, and _her_ legacy.

So it made little sense why she felt so incommodious at the thought of informing Ned of her pregnancy.

* * *

Her attempt had been—self admittedly—pitiful.

The day had dawned pale and grey with a faint yellow sun and cool, crisp air. She and Ned lay in bed—him stiff as a board reading various estate reports and her, lounging contentedly in ermine and silk. There would be a time and place to review the tax reports, oil drilling sights, and infrastructural development summaries—why stress when dawn had not yet risen?

Rolling over to her side, Cersei propped her head up on her hand and observed Eddard Stark carefully. So far, she had no real complaints about him—he indulged her practical whims more than any other husband might and, in bed, he was satisfactory. Yes the man was far too genuine for his own good and that naivety—while beneficial when Cersei sought to beguile and coerce—was aggravating at other times. (Sometimes it was endearing but she rarely chose to dwell on _that_ bit of madness.)

Her piercing emerald gaze must have unnerved even the unperceptive Ned Stark for, after a while, he turned to look at her in return. "My lady?" He inquired, voice steady and calm—if not a bit confused.

"Hm?"

"Is there something the matter?"

She blinked. "No."

"Ah." He gave a slight nod and turned back to his reports.

A few more minutes drifted by but still, Cersei did not turn away. Her exquisite jade eyes remained sharp and alert, analyzing her husband with all the foxlike duplicity of an assassin and all the curious warmth of a child. And every few seconds or so, the iceman Jaime had mocked as unfeeling and insensitive would tentatively return her glance from the corner of his eye. He seemed almost shy then—perhaps yearning to look at Cersei half so boldly as she scrutinized him. But it was not in his nature to be so open with his emotions and, as a man of honor, he had no desire of making his lady wife uncomfortable.

Finally, after what seemed like a lifetime, Lord Eddard Stark placed down his scrolls and books and hesitatingly turned to his wife.

He was met with a bright, devious grin. A cat who'd caught the canary.

"My lady?"

"Have you finally grown bored of your essays, Lord Stark?" She asked imperiously, lifting her chin in a most regal fashion. "Has their dreary prose finally made you ill?"

"I apologize if I seem distracted."

"You know there's a great difference between work and disregard." She raised a brow. "I employ myself to the same strenuous labor you undertake Lord Stark and yet," she lifted one cream silk arm, "you always seem to be far more busy." The temptress rested her hand on his (surprisingly) warm chest. "You never speak to me for more than a few moments while we're together and since I've nothing else to go off of, I'm forced to assume that you find the monotonous complaints of your subordinates much more interesting than I." The words are said so haughtily, so full of pride and annoyance, that it seems impossible for them to be true.

For how could anyone tire of the golden sun?

She expected him to stutter—perhaps even blush—for this act of seduction had always reduced men to animals, slobbering over her golden form and divine words.

But her husband only gave her a kind, patient smile. His left hand clasped her own and he brought it to his lips, placing a gentle kiss on her palm. "Forgive me, Lady Cersei, but even you must realize the consequences of your charm. If I am around you for too long without distraction, I find myself thinking the silliest thoughts and saying the most foolish things. I do not wish for you to think poorly of me."

Cersei bit back her surprise. "So you choose to distance yourself from me instead? Have me believe that you do not wish for my company because even after all I've done, I am still not your equal?"

"It is unreasonable and cretinous of me to do so, I understand, but…" he paused and though Cersei could tell he struggled with his next words, he did so in such a grave, calm manner that she (impatient and irritated) had no wish to interrupt. "I could not have hoped for a stronger wife. Your soaring spirit and great tenacity brings to the north something its always lacked."

She does not acknowledge her pulsing heartbeat.

"And what is that?"

He looked down at her, grey eyes glimmering with something she could not quite name. "Truth be told my lady, I cannot put it to phrase. Whatever it is you possess…"

"Oh, let us not be so grave!" Cersei suddenly sat up and scooted closer so she and Ned sat side by side. "I have brought my wealth and charisma and beauty and left you speechless. Is that not right?" A cheeky, almost playful smile appeared on her strawberry mouth. "And that is not all!" She removed her hand from her husband's grip with relative ease, clasping both hands together on her stomach.

He gazed at her with wonder and amusement. And, for a brief moment, Cersei felt positive she'd lost her mind—what was she doing, acting so inanely in front of him? All her life she's had to fight and claw and demand acknowledgement, had to force her way to the table in a desperate bid for parity. Her being in the frozen North should have meant a redoubling of her efforts—a graver, colder Cersei. Yet…she felt strangely _secure_ around old Ned Stark and the humble servants of Winterfell. They gave her reverence without prompt, judging her actions more than her gender. It made her pause.

It made her think.

"Cersei?" Her husband's voice—dignified and solemn and familiar—broke through her revere.

And, looking into his familiar grey eyes, she felt something warm bloom in her chest. "Yes?"

"You had not finished your thought, my lady."

"Oh. Oh, yes!" Cersei blinked once, twice, and…"But it was nothing important."

And that was the end of that.

* * *

 _My dear brother—_

 _How can I begin to thank you for up and leaving me in Oldtown with a bevy of beauties? I fall in love at least thrice each night and twice more in the morning—I do believe one of them intends on breaking my heart and if not that, my purse. They do require such pretty things—women, vanity be thy second name. Today, however, Podrick has found me some parchment and quill and I find it necessary to write to you about a matter of great importance: your bride. Your very neglected bride who you up and left after spending ONE day with her. Even I, brother dearest, can see that as an act of discourtesy and should father hear about it, your pretty golden head may very well be removed from your fine golden shoulders._

 _How do you expect me to explain to old Leyton Hightower that you're going to Starfall? He's going to think that you intend to elope with that Dayne girl—what was her name? Ashara's quiet little sister—Amily? Adira? Whatever her name is, you must give me_ _ **something**_ _to work with or else I shall be forced to spin a story of epic proportions (and if you so happen to look like an idiot in front of your betrothed,_ _so be it_ _). Then again, I don't suppose your fiancée would care either way—she's a silent thing. Does not enjoy (indeed despises) speaking, doesn't even like_ _ **looking**_ _at people actually._

 _I approached her this morning to bid her good morrow and—do you know what she did? The little girl looked me right in the eye, inquired why I was in a restricted section that belonged solely to her, and then promptly escaped our shared corridor. If I didn't know any better, I'd say she was trying to vex me on purpose! What an amusing young lady—she shares none of Lynesse's soft features; in fact, she's all shades of blue. Blue eyes, blue temper, blue dress—the only thing that isn't blue is her hair: dark and long—I believe she's quite ready to chop it all off. Tempestuous. Tedious. Terribly fun. (Whether I mean this in jest or truth, you'll never know.)_

 _I think I'll challenge her to a game of cyvasse seeing as there's nothing else in the Reach that's particularly interesting. Oh—I nearly forgot, there was_ _ **one**_ _other item but I don't think you'll find it too important. Mace Tyrell is hosting a gala (really, it's just an excuse to gorge himself)—the man will die from excess one day brother, and it won't be a pretty sight but still, I intend on going._

 _What shall I say about your absence? I'm not quite sure. Perhaps if I receive a letter back (within a reasonable time frame) I shan't say anything_ _ **too**_ _embarrassing. Then again, I_ _ **am**_ _quite loquacious after a few cups…hm…difficult to tell._

 _Ah well, do enjoy yourself in Starfall (dare I say, our sister has you on a short leash even when she's halfway across the continent). Sample the women, enjoy the wine—try not to get killed by Prince Oberyn._

 _Fondest regards (alongside debauched affection),_

 _Tyrion the Tit Maester_

* * *

 **A/N:** Gah, I'm so sorry this update took so long! But look, here's Tyrion!

Admittedly, this was a little bit of a filler chapter but the next one will have Jaime and Brienne and maybe, if I have time, I'll thrown in Tyrion babysitting Willas, Garlan, Loras, and Margaery.

Feedback is always appreciated!


	5. Through Incense

_Dearest sis—_

 _Waylaid, still, at the abominably serene isle of Tarth here in the Stormlands. I don't particularly care for any of its natural beauty though the lord of the keep has insisted that a_ _ **boat ride**_ _may soothe my turbulent spirits. Either the man has gone mad or he truly has no concept of derision. He seems far too frank—amiable, yes, but noble to the point of indecency. There is something about him that commands attention and if not attention, at least the prudence of his peers. His name is Selwyn Tarth (a name unfamiliar with us since he must have done nothing to warrant father's disregard) and he is a widower._

 _A widower living on the charming island of Tarth. (Can you see the falsehood in my practiced smile? Of course you can—you're_ _ **my**_ _other half.) The man has a daughter whose name I can't be bothered to remember; she's 9 or so and per guest right, I am obligated to proffer the child a gift. I_ _ **would**_ _have been in Starfall by week's end had our captain—a man of such inadequate ability that there is no word in the Westerosi language to aptly describe his incompetence—not insisted we dock at Tarth. The man is passive, inattentive, and tolerant to the point of stupidity. Rest for the crew? They can drown in the Water Gardens of Sunspear if it means I can see you again._

 _Now we are waylaid at Tarth. The weather has taken a despicable turn and on this auspicious occasion I am to dine privately with Lord Selwyn and meet his 6 year old daughter. If she proves half as beautiful as your childhood self then I suppose this meal could be endured. With teeth grinding. And a considerable amount of patience that we Lannisters do not have a bounty of._

 _Nevertheless I shall endeavor to complete my given task if only for the promise of your warm embrace when I next see you. I've agreed to the marriage between myself and little Célia Hightower. Invitations will be sent out within a fortnight and perhaps—if father is merciful—we shall be wed in three moons time and I will at last be able to look upon your face again._

 _How fares the Northern barbarian? Has he gone and fallen off the Wall yet? No? Ah well._

 _I don't suppose you care much for my opinion of him. Considering that he's still breathing and not dead, I'm tempted to say that you, dearest sis, are somewhat_ _ **fond**_ _of him. What spell has he woven over your emerald eyes? It'd be quite amusing to see him take a dive off the cliffs we used to play near as children. I don't think intrepid blocks of ice can swim—but that's just one man's opinion._

 _Send me a fond hello (or farewell if you've decided to bury your own head in the snow)._

 _Ever yours,_

 _Jaime_

* * *

Her husband's office was made of arched grey stone, decorated with a massive walnut desk and furniture of dark coloring. The walls were interspaced with clear glass windows lined with grey metal; on the west wall there was a large cobalt and forest green tapestry that showed two foxes and a wolf running under a night sky. On the east wall there was a cobbled arch that gave way to a massive bookshelf made of walnut wood and filled—to each nook and cranny—with books, scrolls, and tombs. An odd ink well or two could be seen doting the shelves alongside some black feather quills and, on occasion, an aged bronze compass that seemed to come and go as Cersei entered.

The afternoon would be filled with diplomatic relations that Lord Stark arranged between Rickard Karstark and Wyman Manderly—though the latter had fallen ill and could not make the journey. It was rare for both lord and lady to meet with a subordinate but her husband had stressed Lord Karstark's pride and the close interrelations between House Stark and Karstark. Distant cousins or some other preamble that, in the Westerlands, would have made no difference. Tywin Lannister considered only his immediate family and even his brothers, on occasion, were regulated adrift.

A small, almost indiscernible, smile appeared on Cersei's lips then.

 _"If you aren't too busy, I would like for you to be present at my next meeting with Lord Karstark." Ned inquired, expression stoic. He stood behind the walnut desk—dark and plain, not the polished satinwood Cersei had grown accustomed to seeing at Casterly Rock. Briefly, she wondered when she stopped calling Casterly Rock home but banished the thought as quickly as it'd appeared._

 _"You don't think your subordinates would find it suspicious that a woman with half a brain was at such a conference?" She immediately bit her tongue after those words—sharp and disheartening—left her rosebud mouth. This was an opportunity to be_ _ **seized**_ _for Seven's sake—not questioned! It seemed that her Lannister snark had not lessened with marriage._

 _Yet Lord Stark, as always, was not perturbed. In fact, his grey eyes now held a strange glimmer that was akin, Cersei thought, to amusement. "You're in the North now, my lady. Here, we are less sensible in all things."_

 _"Even with women?"_

 _"Particularly with women." He confirmed with solemn dignity, tilting his chin up a few centimeters, trying—and failing—to look the part of a pompous southern lord._

 _Cersei bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. Eddard Stark was far too noble to ever appear pompous._

 _But she did like how he had begun to display a bit of that wry humor around her—it was much better than his grim faced soliloquies on friendship and whatnot._

 _"Very well." Cersei conceded, clasping her hands in front of her. "I shall make my presence known as soon as they appear."_

 _"You do love a grand entrance."_

 _"I don't love anything of the sort. I_ _ **like**_ _making an impression."_

 _"Then what do you love, my lady?" His voice was soft, earnest._

 _It made Cersei's heart fell vulnerable—almost exposed—and she disliked the feeling immensely. How could such a cold man be so…sentimental?_

 _"That word is used too freely." She returned, wondering if he would continue to press her for answers._ No…that's something Jaime would do. Not Ned—he's far too honorable to be so abrasive. _"Love gets so confused with amiability these days that I find the whole concept tiresome. If one is in love then one is mad."_

 _"So ardor connotes insanity?"_

 _"Mayhap."_

 _"Thank you, my lady." He gave her a slight bow—the ones Cersei secretly relished._

 _She couldn't tell by his tone if he was displeased with her answer but—never the mind. There were more important things to focus on than Eddard Stark's emotional spectrum._

 _"Your honesty is appreciated." He murmured, right before she swept out the room._

Cersei stopped mid-stride, the corridor's torchlights providing a familiar warmth that she had grown accustomed to. Waiting, the Lady of Winterfell strained her ears to hear— _ah! There it is!_ Lord Karstark's overbearing bluster echoed faintly from behind her husband's office doors followed by the scrape of wood against stone. Cersei crinkled her nose. _Moving_ _ **our**_ _chairs? Trying to bolster the already favorable kinship my husband has set aside for you? You—the worthless fifth cousin of some incorrigible brute and bastard. What a lark._

If she was ever to do business with these people again then there would need to be some ground rules. Though, if she played her cards right, she might be able to regulate Karhold to a more affable administrator. One who already held Cersei in kind affection. One who, with time and patience, would grow far too loyal to ever question her motives.

* * *

"…appreciate the consolidation of your decision by the end of next week, Lord Karstark."

"I can't promise you anything as quick as that." Was Rickard Karstark's muffled reply. Cersei resisted the urge to roll her eyes as she approached the heavy double doors; the two guards immediately straightened up. The younger one colored with embarrassment while the older gave Cersei a discreet nod.

The last of Lord Karstark's reply was drowned out by the groaning of the entrance way doors, thrown open for Cersei to glide through, her gold gown glittering. Casting aside the shadows of the room, Cersei cut a beautiful figure of aureate and pearls, skin luminous and emerald eyes sharp, almost cutting, as she observed Lord Karstark's reluctant stance of greeting.

Her husband stood up immediately (as was his wont), not the least bit bothered by her lofty admittance. "My lords." Cersei addressed, smile serpentine as she gave a shallow—almost insultingly so—curtsey. "I do hope my absence has not excused me from any matters of particular importance."

"Not at all, my lady." Lord Stark motioned for her to stand beside him—a pillar of gold beside his high backed chair and dark walnut desk.

Lord Karstark sat down, outrage plain. "My lord, I had thought we would discuss Karhold's trade agreements before first dusk. I have traveled a great way from my home to speak to you—"

"And so we shall, my lord." Her husband intoned gravely, the sharp command of reproach hinted in his tone. _Hinted,_ Cersei mused, _never spoken outrightly._ "Lady Cersei is the one overseeing the extraction of crude oil* from our Northern reservoirs."

"Didn't know we _had_ reservoirs." Karstark muttered under his breath before looking up again, his dour, pallid face hard. _Ugly and callous,_ Cersei ruminated spitefully, _if_ _ **my**_ _father were here he'd be as dead as the Reynes and Tarbecks of Castamere._ His next words only confirmed Cersei's hatred.

"Surely there are men better suited to the task."

Her jaw clenched, indignation coursing through her veins but before she could point out that no Northerner knew oil drilling better than Tywin Lannister's daughter, Lord Stark intervened. "My lady wife is more than capable of supervising this project. The Westerlands have commanded their own oil wells for decades and with Lady Cersei's knowledge, the North may be able to match them some day."

"And that day would come all the sooner if you would only acquiesce to the site projections I drew up and sent to you a fortnight ago." She fixed the neckline of her gown. "It would not only produce profit for your house and the general Northern populace but also for the advancement of our industrious region."

Karstark—with his salt and pepper beard—glowered. Clearly, the affront of femininity had done him in.

"Oil is a necessity to our day to day lives, Lord Rickard." Ned reminded with an all too patient voice. Had it been up to Cersei, she would have seized Karhold and forced those ungrateful bastards to concede.

"Bah! It's useful only to those new fangled southerners and traders across the sea. We've no use for this frivolity."

"No use?" Her voice sliced through the room as Jaime's sword did flesh. "While I'm amazed with your middling palaver of terminology may I suggest you look into your words before executing them? For I do believe we have differing opinions on the term 'useful' Lord Karstark."

"Cersei—"

"Oil produces the asphalt that the Ironborn, Braavosi, south, and King's Landing use to caulk their ships, Lord Karstark. The tarry crude from oil is used for stabilizing every piece of artwork known to man—it is what holds your keep together, my lord, do not forget _that_ detail. Those in the Riverlands use bamboo pipelines to import oil and natural gas to warm their homes; those in Dorne use oil to treat mange and gout. Asphaltum is used to waterproof your cargo and seal the holes on ships—need I go on or have you been educated with something you should have known the minute you stepped foot in my husband's study?"

Throughout her tirade, Lord Karstark's countenance had ranged from pink to beetroot to red and now, to a violent shade of purple that threatened to cut off the circulation of his heart. Both his hands clutched at the armrests of his chair, knuckles white and fists clenching the dark wood material. His jaw was shaking and that hideous white beard moved in tandem with his suppressed fury.

Cersei's own blood was boiling; she felt half ready to strike the man down had it not been for the cool hand that rested on her right arm.

She glanced down and saw that her husband's expression was one of reprehension and another emotion she couldn't identify. Cersei placed her hand on his shoulder, confused as to what he wanted. Instead, the action seemed to soothe him and he turned his attention to the fuming Lord Karstark, whose cheeks were now a disturbing shade of eggplant.

"Do forgive the manner with which my wife informed you on the merits of oil but, I cannot rebuke her truth." The tone of his voice was icy—frozen and hard, like a dagger cutting across bone in winter. "The North has a chance to capitalize on opportunities the south has monopolized for centuries."

"Your wife'll be ripping apart my home!"

Cersei's hand on Ned's shoulder tightened as she opened her mouth to protest because _didn't the imbecile understand? She was trying to_ _ **help**_ _them—she was trying to aid this forsaken lot and inspire something greater! What did it take to get a Northman to understand? Was rationality lost in the North? Frostbitten by the winds of winter? How moronic were these barbaric people?_

Yet her husband's words were not what Cersei was expecting.

"We will be benefitting the citizens of Karhold, hearth and town. Your roads—constantly iced over and littered with fallen trees—will be cleared by the revenue with which we intend to spend on these new oil operations. The increase of work will employ hundreds of listless laborers and the influx of directors, artisans, and mathematicians will certainly help the ailing economy you now preside over."

"How dare—"

"Your father and his father before him have deferred the debts they own to House Stark. I too have extended more courtesy to you than I would any other lord because, as blood permits, you are my kin. But this indefinitely has an end." Eddard Stark brought forth a packet of timeworn documents, sliding them closer to Lord Karstark who sat indignantly on the other side of the desk. "The Bay of Seals is by your doorstep yet you turn away the opportunity to profit from a shipbuilding town. Your operations, Lord Karstark, are a thing to behold—the men believe you have forsaken them and now write to me of their woes. Their conditions are but fractured caricatures of what a shipyard ought to look like. They work with their bare hands for gloves are difficult to come by—though sealskin is all you seem to peddle. They lack shoes and hunger for the chance to be able to escape the orphanage you have incased them in. You have orphaned your own people, my lord, and now you turn away the occasion to build them a home."

Lord Stark's voice softened, just a measure. "Rickard, we may be Northmen and ice may flow through our veins but even the strongest man needs shelter from the gale. You have, as always, been a friend to House Stark and in particular, Rickard, you have been an obelisk of resolve—one that I have come to care for as both kinsman and trusted companion."

Though his words were plainspoken, it seemed to ease the heavy weight of whatever burden Lord Karstark carried and the enmity in his eyes—stormy and bitter—dissolved. He now looked more ashamed than angry and Cersei seized the chance to pelt the man with his own incompetence.

"Indeed, Lord Karstark! You have profited the greatest from our house's benevolence and now—"

"Cersei." Ned warned in a voice that stunned the lioness into silence. He did not sound like a glacial brute or vulgar iceman—his voice rang with the authority of a solider ordering his troops to battle, gliding through the air like a hail of arrows.

He sounded like the Lord of Winterfell.

With a curious sort of care (and also a hint of acridity), Cersei observed as Lord Eddard Stark brokered—with firm gentility and stern respect—a compromise that was not as dynamic as Cersei's original outline but one that Lord Karstark now seemed far more interested in.

 _How very strange._

She watched with narrowed jade eyes as her husband patiently reiterated the location, price, and manpower required for this eastern oil well. No hint of contempt in his steady, even tone and—Cersei's eyes flickered to Rickard Karstark, the old, repugnant lord of Karhold—who appeared grateful for this unspoken comity. _He treats with sympathy; displays understanding instead of power._

 _Yet his subservients do not despise or mock him for it._ Her brows knitted together in confusion. _Is this a Northern trait or has Eddard Stark mastered something specific to his contingency?_ In the Westerlands, this would not have been tolerated.

 _How very strange indeed._

* * *

 **Evenfall Hall, Tarth**

Jaime was bored.

Bored because his ship captains had conferred and agreed that due to the severity of a little tropical weather down south, they were now marooned on the bloody island of Tarth. The inns had filled with rapid and ready ease as the men sought to escape the wrath of Ser Jaime Lannister, who was now being held hostage in a castle that was as plain and dull as the island it sat on.

 _Fucking. Hell._

He sat recklessly by the ledge of his window, glancing down with thinly veiled disinterest at the courtyard scene where some brutish squire was attempting to butcher his teacher. Before, he'd walked the corridors of Evenfall Hall (pale grey with parabolic arches buttressed by carved stone that resembled, he supposed, the round moon and pointed star. He had briefly wondered if he could break the damned star and use it to drown himself at sea but then decided against the melodramatic idea—Ashara Dayne already laid claim to death by sea and Jaime Lannister was nothing if not original). Then, he'd written a letter to Tyrion expressly warning his younger brother against antagonizing the Tyrells. He'd written a letter to his father informing him of his snail pace progress. He'd even written a letter to his long lost Uncle Gerion just for the heck of it before throwing paper and wax into the fireplace.

And then he'd composed a letter to Cersei.

Cersei. _His other half._ They'd planned everything out _so perfectly._ Cersei was supposed to marry Rhaegar while he remained on his majesty's Kingsguard, protecting the Last Dragon by day and loving his golden twin at night. It allowed him to escape the tedium of Casterly Rock and all that governing it implied but by force of Robert fucking Baratheon and Tywin Lannister, he'd been forced—head first—into accepting his birthright.

Lazily, Jaime's gaze flickered from the training court to the vast, sapphire ocean that stretched out before the island. It was nearly suppertime and the apricot-orange sun was slowly sinking beneath the horizon line, casting waves of shimmering gold across its tranquil waters. From behind the molten sun stood smudges of faded lavender and titian pink, soaking the sky with dusk's delight while the whole world seemed to pause in peaceful contemplation. Before long, night would be upon them and Jaime, per bloody fucking guest right, would have to dine with Lord Tarth and his mysteriously absent daughter.

Now that he thought about it, he hadn't seen any children pacing through Evenfall Hall despite the fact that he'd been stranded in the castle for close to six hours. He surmised that the girl might look like her mother—the moon haired beauty with delicate features, a full red mouth, and the bluest eyes Jaime had ever seen. There were portraits of other children too though they, he suspected, were most likely dead since Lord Tarth had only mentioned a daughter.

 _Mayhap she's a sickly one._ He mused carelessly. _Stuck away in some tower—waiting to be rescued by a noble knight._

 _What_ _ **nonsense.**_

Jaime had stopped believing in fairytales the day his mother died. Storybook fantasies ended with Lady Joanna's passing for Tywin Lannister would not permit such "foolish idiocy" to be read by his son and heir. No longer could he venture into the gardens—the ones filled with his mother's favorite blossoms, fragrant and full—but was instead relegated to scrolls, maesters, and the training yard.

Jaime loved the weight of a sword in his hand—loved the rush of the lunge and riposte; he felt invigorated by the harsh clang of metal slicing against metal. It was the only part of Tywin's training regiment he enjoyed. He was a knight—a born and ready knight.

But even knights held a rose flower in hand—a longing to love and be loved. These were thoughts Jaime would never express to anyone—not even Cersei—for they sounded (even to himself) sentimental and weak. Sympathy brought about rebellion and meekness encouraged strife.

Fairytales burned—and it was best to keep away from the inferno.

* * *

By the time the sun had fully dipped beneath the cobalt sea, with only a sliver of gold to distinguish land from ocean, Jaime saw that the corporeal squire had not ceased training. The boy was attacking another knight with all the bluster and recklessness that came with physical intimidation. It made him laugh—was this a relative of Robert Baratheon? Perhaps his bastard son? The thought wouldn't surprise him; from what he'd heard, poor Queen Catelyn with her Tully honor and sunset hair had to endure the daily inquisition of the ton. _Did you know, did you know, did you know—_ Robert Baratheon already had three bastards in the Stormlands. Who knew how many street urchins ran around Fleabottom with similar black hair and blue eyes.

From above, Jaime saw that the knight had thrown off his helmet and was now angrily reproaching his squire for some reckless move that, from afar, looked more like a botched embrace. The knight grabbed his squire's sword and yanked off the boy's helmet. The child's head was bowed low and, silently, the boy endured his master's rebuke. For a brief moment, Jaime admired his stoicism—had it been up to him, he'd have loped the good ser's head off.

Finally, when the tirade was over, the boy lifted his head right as a servant knocked on Jaime's door.

"Enter." He intoned, eyes still fixed on the scene below him.

"My lord—"

"Don't tell me—Lord Tarth has decided that with dusk comes retreat and with retreat comes supper. Is that not right?"

"Y-yes, my lord."

"Hm. Did he get that motif from Lord Tyrell of Highgarden or is it merely coincidental?" He knew he was on the verge of antagonizing the island's liege lord but he honestly couldn't bring himself to care.

The servant, too, was subdued into silence.

Jaime rolled his eyes. Turning around, he took pity on the shaking boy with muddy brown hair and terrified shiver. _As if I was going to strike him down as I did Aerys._

"I'll attend in time." He offered and with Jaime's answer received, the boy bowed and hastily retreated from the room, scrambling down the corridor as if there were a pack of feral dogs after him.

The young lion snorted. The fear one's reputation could invoke.

Glancing back down, he saw that the knight had left and only the squire remained. Yet before he had the chance to rise and leave his chamber, the boy looked up and Jaime saw—even in the indistinct twilight—eyes of the purest sapphire blue.

* * *

 _Brother dearest!_

 _About to feast with Lord Tyrell & co. but first—a message! I may find the oaf of Highgarden disagreeable (Lady Olenna's words, not mine) but his children do provide fine entertainment. I have read with Lord Willas, parlayed with Lord Garlan (who is a little knight in the making, may I remind you), enjoyed the handsome beauty of little Loras Tyrell, and was charmed by the dark beauty of baby Margaery. (She takes after her mother, thank the gods.) _

_Lady Célia said very little to me. Mentioned something about mooncakes and, with that one statement, I later discerned that she has a terrible fondness for sweets. (Guard her figure if you don't wish for divorce!) Alas, that is all I am able to say for now as this raven's scroll is pitifully narrow and I'm beginning to feel far too sober._

 _Till we meet again, Florin!_

 _Tyrion, Lord Commander of Quim and Guile_

 _(Did not mention anything too terrible about you. Said you liked swords.)_

* * *

 **A/N: Gah, I'm sorry for this late chapter/no Brienne and Jaime interaction (but look! They've met each other! Sorta...) I was going to include the dinner scene between Selwyn, Brienne, and Jaime but that just made the chapter way too long so I split it in half.**

 **Also hope that scene with Ned, Cersei, and Karstark clarified some things. (I'm basing all the uses of oil on the ancient Babylonians and Persians in 600-ish BC. Please remember that when I write oil I don't mean diesel fuel. I'm talking CRUDE oil. The unrefined oil that's drilled up through the ground. Not kerosene or gasoline.)**

 **And to those readers who say that I've "butchered Cersei's character": I'm sorry if she seems more mentally stable and less vindictive than on the show. But she hasn't had to put up with Robert Baratheon for 17+ years and her incestuous relationship has been ixnayed. So her psychology isn't completely out of whack yet.**

 **(Also she's not bitching and pining for Jaime OUTRIGHT because she's BUSY. For the first time Cersei has been given the chance to do meaningful work and has the express approval of a leading male figure in her corner. Her mind doesn't have time to stew and overanalyze over imagined paranoia.)**

 **I accept constructive criticism. Tell me if you want more elaboration, less affection, more seriousness; tell me if my writing is a little too overindulgent and wordy. If you pick up something that seems out of key, don't be afraid to call me out on it! Really!**

 **But don't come here and say "this sucks, stop writing it". If that's genuinely your opinion, DON'T READ THIS. Do I seem a little defensive? Sure. I spent time and energy writing this and it stings when people say it's not "canon compliant" because in canon, Cersei didn't marry Ned. I entrench the characters in their environment and do my best to discern how they might react to it.**

 **Very sorry for the rant. Really, I'm not one to retaliate so vehemently and I understand if some might see this as childish or unprofessional (having a Cersei moment here, sorry lol). But, with honest sincerity and gratitude to everyone whose supported this work: THANK YOU! You make me want to continue this story and see it to the end! :)**


	6. Blackberry Winter

**Excerpt from the journal of E. Stark**

 _...It appears as if Cersei has taken it upon herself to disagree with everything I propose. From the choice of tapestry for the Great Hall to how we ought to welcome Lord Manderly three moons from now. Gods forgive me—I'm indulging her. Mayhap it is part of the Lannister aesthetic, to be so persistent in beauty and faculty that one is rendered permissive and accommodating—just to see their smile._

 _She has (begrudgingly) agreed to sacrifice our daily cargo of imported citrus fruits in exchange for a fertile import of blueberry plants from the Reach. Though I am but a novice when it comes to the agricultural arts, I have been assured by Maester Luwin that these shrubs ought to do well in any climate (save the desert). In a crusade to liberate our North from total dependence, Cersei has taken to every kind of experimentation while I parlay for support. Houses Bolton, Manderly, Umber, Reed, and now Karstark have leant their acquisition. Houses Glover and Mormont are somewhat reluctant._

 _New trade routes and a secure agreement with Winterfell for iron and copper ought to induce Lord Glover. The Mormonts (proud) will never accept such a blatant display of southern guile—more likely, an overture of extended trust and friendship might be the best diplomatic path to pursue._

 _Now even with this, my mind strays. I do not consider myself particularly adept in the art of exposition but Cersei…she engrosses my thoughts too entirely to allow me to think of anything else. What's more, I am beginning to find I do not dislike the prospect._

* * *

Roose Bolton was an oily, malevolent, sly piece of shit.

With his powder soft voice and bloodless appearance, it was no wonder everyone called him the Leech Lord. He was polite and tactful, speaking so economically that Cersei was positive she'd never heard more than ten words pass his lips. The man was a calculating, captious snake and Cersei Lannister didn't like him one bit. Cersei _Stark_ had to be just as courteous—if not more so—since the Dreadfort (and all its surrounding lands) had gotten a head start in industrialization. Roose Bolton was not only a subtle man but he was fiercely possessive of his finances.

Iron. Steel. Weaponry. Nearly everything was smelted down around the Dreadfort and then sold for a modest price to other Northern lords and the average Westerosi solider. The Boltons had amassed a quiet fortune in this trade.

And Eddard Stark— _her husband_ —knew.

"Why did you not follow through with such a proposition yourself? Or better yet, lay claim to the invention as your own and force the Boltons to share their profits? This is _your_ land, not his! Whatever he has produced is yours by right, you need only take it." Cersei spat vehemently as she and Ned stood across from each other in their bedchamber. The hour was late and both were weary; in fact, had the large bed and headpiece not been between them, Cersei felt half sure that she would've pounced on him.

 _What will it take to get it through his head: WE are meant to reap the rewards of the land—_ ** _not them_** _._

But dutiful, constant Eddard Stark was not upset—and if he was, he hid it well. "Cersei we have to allow other keeps to make a livelihood—"

"The Boltons are wealthier than we are!"

"And it is on Roose Bolton's industry where they make their claim."

"Don't you dare try to inveigle this as some sort of one-man revolution. You know perfectly well Roose Bolton cannot import or export items outside the North without a warden's charter. An explicit confirmation of approval from _you._ And you gave it to him did you not? Signed the paperwork and sealed the envelope as it came." Cersei, in her gossamer nightgown and illuminated hair, looked like an angel of nemesis come down from the heavens. Chin up, stance firm—she was ready for battle.

Ned Stark, strong and silent, was weary. "Cersei, you must understand that I cannot steal away the subsistence of my bannermen just for the sake of a few gold dragons."

He paused.

That, clearly, was the wrong thing to say.

"It is not about the gold they already have—it's about the future wealth they will accumulate through this system of intention!" Cersei glided towards the bed, her fiery emerald eyes never leaving Ned's placid countenance. "The trade routes will only serve to aid them and I've heard that Roose Bolton is already planning to expand the town around his Dreadfort. They'll have more taxes to collect, more people to exploit. Mayhap one day Roose Bolton shall view his holdings and decide that _this_ ought to be the North's capitol. That you, Lord Stark, are superfluous and within a turn of the moon, civil war shall break out and you will find yourself on the receiving end of a bloody onslaught that may last several years."

"Just because I have not denied my men their resources and vocation does not mean I have neglected in overseeing them. I am well aware that the Boltons are a formidable ally and could, with a turn of the screw, become equally dangerous adversaries. I simply do not wish to dominate a house whose support and loyalty has aided in the peace and tranquility of the North."

"So you will only act when there is fire in the streets, children on spikes, and women raped with their bellies sliced open?"

"I can reassure you that such a cruel occasion will not come to pass." Ned ran a hand through his unbound hair, as dark and enigmatic as his person. "The Starks have kept watch over Winterfell and all the North for centuries. We have never willingly allowed civil war to transpire. I understand you may see it as negligence but there is something of Northmen you must understand."

"That you all strive to bury your heads in the snow and live off the land?" Cersei taunted sarcastically, bitterly wondering if she could broker a midnight extrication if war did befall them.

Ned's answering smile was faint though his eyes communicated a silent warning she paid no heed to. "We are all kinsmen. If not in blood then in name and faith. I seek not to subjugate my people through the use of economic violence or manmade famine, Cersei. I want equal respect among us lords. No predetermined title can grant subjugation without substance." The gentle honesty in his voice made Cersei nauseous. "I understand your worries, my lady, but under no circumstance will I ever allow Roose Bolton to think himself Warden of the North. The taxes he pays are taxes Winterfell collects and though the sum is of little importance, the act itself reminds Lord Bolton that though he may live in his own keep and execute his own mandates, it is to House Stark he owes his loyalty."

The strength in his voice emboldened Cersei to act but before she could, another wave of nausea hit her—and this time, she could not blame it on sentimentality. Briefly, she felt her balance falter but that in itself was enough to spur Ned into action. A hazy fog clouded her mind and she did not know when he had leapt from one end of the room to the other and—was he now holding her?

"Lord Stark." Cersei murmured, pressing one hand against her temple. "I…fear that Maester Luwin is needed." She hissed slightly when he picked her up, her nausea and erratic heartbeat dizzying. "I feel as though someone has poured boiling water on my stomach and spun me around in a stifled dungeon cell." Cersei murmured as she was lowered onto the bed.

(For a second, she thought she felt a soft pressure against her forehead but dismissed the notion—her husband disliked public displays of affection.)

* * *

Maester Luwin had never been so grateful for his lord's steady hand and reliable surety. Even as his grey eyes stormed with worry, question, and frenzy, the Lord of Winterfell remained as calm as the still ocean surface. Inside, he was awash with trepidation and anguish. Cersei, for all her brazen certainty and spoiled sense of self, was strong. Her willpower was astonishing and for a lady of the south, she was certainly not afraid to impose it upon others. It was one of the things Ned liked best about her—one of the _many_ things (though he dared not speak of this out loud).

He knew full well that Cersei was proud and, being the offspring of Tywin Lannister, more than willing to manipulate. He guarded his heart as best he could but the lioness of Casterly Rock held a certain allure even he could not deny. She was a scintillating burst of color—the deepest red, the brightest gold. Cersei Lannister could hold her own against any man and such capability was not to be overlooked; she accepted Ned's burdens as her own and took to running Winterfell (and all the North) as if she'd been born to do so.

Proffered from her vigorous, dynamic mind was a revelation in black and silver—a metamorphosis of the home Ned had known for so long and yet, had always been willing to guard. To have another soul share his desire—share his duty—was the truest and purest way to pierce through the Northern ice of his heart. He may not hold any love towards the Lannisters as a whole but for Cersei, he'd be willing to make amends. The gilded lions were not honorable and Ned doubted if they would ever _want_ to be—but surely, for a house so reportedly depraved, they must bear some merits because _Cersei._ His bright, headstrong wife.

It was one of the most infuriating, insufferable charms his wife possessed—one that Ned was both endeared and exasperated by.

And though he didn't speak much, he was not entirely unaware of what was unfolding before him.

If Cersei needed to work in order to feel welcomed, then Ned would allow it. He would allow just about anything when it came from Cersei's lips; though vain, she saw value beneath the surface. Perhaps that was why she'd taken to old Maester Luwin so easily and, in her own proud way, now considered him ally and friend.

Even rarer, Cersei had devoted time (albeit a fraction of it) to _Jon._ That was something that struck Ned body and soul; he suspected that her motives were not entirely altruistic but the point was—she was _trying._ Any other noblewoman would have shut out the orphaned bastard boy—would have regaled him with cold glares and bitter scowls. Ned would not have blamed Cersei for that same reaction.

But Lannisters hated predicability and Cersei had always been eager to break the mold. To her, it was less about the bloodline and more about the competence she could one day harness. Oh Ned knew how Cersei's mind worked (at least, in part) and the designs she outlined, the visions she wrote down—they were beautiful, lively dreams she was now willing into existence.

He could not lose her. Not now—not when she'd managed to tunnel her way into his heart with such remarkable speed that he dared not believe it himself.

Standing outside their bedroom door, arms hanging uselessly by his sides, he'd never felt so helpless. Maester Luwin had not yet reappeared and the maids had all but barricaded themselves with their mistress. Outside, Ned knew of only one place he could go where his sanity might be kept intact.

 _The nursery._

* * *

Jon Snow slept peacefully in his newly built cradle—an ostentatious cherrywood monstrosity that was far too big for even two babes. He laid on white and pale blue cashmere, one arm tucked above his head and the other resting on his hip—as if ready to lead an army into battle. Ned observed him closely, carefully, so as to not disturb his tranquil features and soft breathing.

 _Cersei tucked him in._ He noted silently, for only his wife would have made such an elaborate burrow for a bastard son of Winterfell. Jon's plump, pale cheek was rosy with warmth and his tuft of black hair curled out at the ends. Just like Lya's did when she was a child.

Shaking his head, Ned banished the memories to the recesses of his mind, instead preferring to trace a light finger across Jon's chin and jaw. The slight motion, however, awakened the slumbering babe and one sleepy silver grey eye opened, peeking up at Ned with an almost mischievous quality.

"Go back to sleep, little one." Ned murmured tenderly, peering down at Jon with a slight smile.

The babe frowned and gurgled, holding up one chubby fisted hand.

"Sh, sh—I'll see you on the morrow."

"Nnh!" Jon struggled, waving his fist in the air again. "Nnh!" His lower lip began to tremble.

"Ah, not to worry Jon. Old Nan—"

"Nnh!" Jon shook his head frantically, his eyes sliding between Ned and the nursery door that—to his confusion—remained shut. "Nnh!" His chubby fist waved again.

Ned turned back to look at the door, brows furrowed. _What was he waiting for—?_

"Cersei." Her name came out in a whisper—like the faint rush of a moss green brook in spring.

Jon's soft cries ceased and he looked eagerly at Ned, as if expecting the golden Lady Cersei to appear from behind him.

With a love that threatened to overwhelm, Ned picked up Jon in his arms, gently cradling the boy as if he were his own. "Hush now." The Lord of Winterfell's voice was like the rumble of thunder from faraway, all at once soothing and assertive in its low cadence. A wry smile appeared on Ned's lips, saddened by the heaviness in his eyes. "It seems as if we both need her, little one." Ned chuckled. "Cersei Stark. A Lannister. Isn't this be a sight to behold?"

Jon said no more then, though his grey eyes were fixed behind Ned—to the still closed nursery door.

* * *

 **Evenfall Hall, Tarth**

Jaime found the dining hall easily enough. As he progressed closer towards the heart of the castle, the tapestries turned sapphire blue with hand stitched moon and star emblems that shone like lake water beneath the golden torchlight. He supposed there was a natural rhythm to the whole island that some might find pleasing.

He, so far, found the entire experience debilitating.

"Lord Jaime Lannister, my lord." A steward posted by the doorway announced in a voice as broad and heavy as a falling boulder.

Without a word of thanks, Jaime entered the hall to see a rich, high ceiling of grey stone that met at a pointed pinnacle. He felt as if he were in a spinning top dome—one decorated with mahogany, a pale stone mantle, and a long, elegant dining table filled with fresh flowers and silver dishes. Seated at the head of the table was Selwyn Tarth; an imposing, formidable man with the gait of a solider and a body of strength and determination. He reminded Jaime of the noble ox—though far more graceful.

"Lord Jaime." Selwyn Tarth rose in greeting, standing at an impressive height that was nearly on par with Jaime himself. "I apologize for the delay in your journey south, my lord. The impetuous weather here beguiles no man but certainly charms the white moon well."

"The push and pull of the tide is an ever constant force." Jaime returned, figuring that the astronomical motifs had to mean something.

Old Tarth smiled, releasing Jaime's hand and gesturing for him to sit by his righthand side—directly across from a straw haired boy.

"I was under the impression that your daughter would be joining us this evening." The sapphire and silver pendant sat heavily in his breast coat pocket. "I do believe the young lady must be part knight for she has eluded me in the hallways as Ser Barristan eludes me on the battlefield."

Lord Selwyn laughed—a hearty, full bellied laugh that could only come from a man contented with his lot in life. Clearly, Jaime mused, he'd missed the jibe behind it.

"My good Ser Jaime you are just as charming as the singers say." He chuckled while Jaime sat down.

"The singers have a tendency to embellish." He returned coolly, beginning to grow somewhat bored already.

"And so they do." Lord Tarth agreed. "But let us speak of those matters another time. For now, allow me to introduce you to my daughter, the Lady Brienne."

Jaime's sharp verdure eyes swept across the room but he saw no glimpse of pale moon hair or even the sight of a maiden's dress. Instead, to his surprise, the straw haired boy lifted his head and—

Jaime found himself drowning in two pools of the clearest sapphire blue he'd ever seen. _Those eyes…just like Lady Tarth's…_

He blinked and all at once, his soldier's instinct came through. Crooked nose. Sunburnt skin. Large lips. Freckled cheeks. Thick neck. Poorly cut gown. The observations were catalogued and digested within seconds though the surprise did not wear off so quickly. It took him a full minute to register Lord Selwyn's words.

 _ **This** was the Lady Brienne? Was she by any chance adopted? A legitimized bastard? Seven hells—where did he procure this ungainly child from? _

He managed, with great effort, to keep those thoughts to himself. Instead, he allowed a charming, blasé smile to appear on his lips—one that brought forth a heated, beet red blush from the girl. "The pleasure, my lady, is undiluted on my part."

Her blush turned into a darker shade of carmine that threatened to implode though she managed to stand up—clumsily, and with none of Cersei's practiced grace. "My lord." She gave a poorly conceived curtsey (or what Jaime supposed was a curtsey) before immediately sitting back down. "It is an honor to have you on our fair isle." Her words were spoken softly, with the timidity of a chambermaid.

Jaime suppressed an eye roll. Good gods, he was exercising a lot of restraint tonight.

"Your keep is lovely and fair." He resisted the urge to add _like your gentle face_ since he figured Lord Selwyn might not appreciate the crude irony. Instead, Jaime smirked. "Now, correct me if I'm wrong but did I not see a young squire fighting a fully recognized knight some hours before in the western courtyard?"

"Oh yes." Lord Selwyn intoned, a faint hint of pride in his full bodied voice. "Brienne's better than most boys twice her age. She'll make a fine swords-woman some day."

"Twice her age…? Am I to understand she is not yet twelve?"

The girl ducked her head, gaze fixed steadily on her empty plate. Silence filled the room and it was clear Lord Selwyn was expecting Brienne the Silent to answer for herself.

"I've just turned nine." The girl muttered at long last, still refusing to look up at Jaime.

Though he was mildly insulted by her impudence, he couldn't exactly blame her for it. He had done things— _much worse things_ —at the age of nine.

"Is that so." Jaime mused. "Well, you've certainly taken the Hound's height and added it to your resume of future knighthood."

Her blush deepened and Jaime felt a sliver of pity for the girl. She was certainly no coquette.

Instead, he turned his attention to Lord Selwyn who—with a few hand signals—encouraged the appearance of servants and chef's aids, each carrying a dish of freshly prepared delicacy.

"Are you a man of the sea, Ser Jaime?"

 _No._ "Yes, I find the armada a riveting display of naval power."

Lord Selwyn laughed again, hearty and true. "No, no, my lord. I meant for leisure."

"Leisure?"

"Oh yes. My Brienne can swim faster than most knights and she's just as strong. The sea's waves enrapture her."

Jaime glanced at the straw haired girl again. Her head was bowed in what Jaime now suspected was her usual pose and—as expected—she said nothing. "I've never swum in the waters of Tarth." _I've never even **been** on your bloody island before._ "But when I was a child, the Sunset Sea held me captive—that and the cliffs of Casterly Rock."

"Oh-ho cliff diving?"

For a brief moment, Jaime allowed a sliver of a true smile on his lips. "My uncle's squire said I was the finest diver he'd ever seen. My uncle said I ought to remain with the sword."

"And you've succeeded beautifully in your endeavor." He turned to the ever silent Brienne. "Knighted at age fifteen by Ser Arthur Dayne himself. An honor if there ever was one."

Brienne looked up and Jaime, once again, was stunned into sudden silence by the blue of her eyes. They were like nothing he'd ever seen—pure and endless, like the continuous depth of the ocean itself. _Her only redeeming feature._ The crueler part of Jaime's mind sneered. _A pity to have been born so plain though the gods saw fit to bless her with sapphires._

Lord Tarth cleared his throat. "What was he like?"

Jaime was served angelfish of marigold and electric blue by a thin haired servant followed by an array of prawns by another narrow chinned steward. "Who, Ser Arthur?" He feigned ignorance, taking the time to debate on whether or not to request mushroom sauce. It was with hateful reverence that he called upon the memories of his youth. "He was, in the words of poetry, the comet itself—blazing and violet, cutting down his enemies with such precision that he was near omnipresent." He paused. "I respected him." _I wanted to_ ** _be_** _him._

From across the way, little Brienne with her crooked nose and buck teeth, appeared mesmerized.

"Did he train you?" Lord Selwyn inquired, breaking into a crab leg with great gusto while a servant poured him a goblet of Arbor Red.

"If he did then it was training on the job. I was knighted on the battlefield after cutting down my first man in the Kingswood Brotherhood. Ser Arthur disliked the monotony of training new recruits and, for so fine a swordsman, I couldn't bring myself to blame him. Why waste your talents propping up the young when your parry alone could disarm three men?" Jaime fixed his gaze on the hesitant Lady Brienne. "Would you agree with that statement, my lady?"

"I…" she fumbled, mouth moving but words silent.

"Of course you don't." Jaime raised his goblet. "You've never seen him in battle." With derisive gallantry, Jaime proffered her a toast. "To knights—new and old."

The girl's cheeks reddened, jaw tightening with consternation. It must have taken her a great deal of self control to keep from lashing out at him.

"To knights." She muttered under her breath. "New and old."

And so flowed the Arbor's wine.

* * *

 **Winterfell**

"Your melancholy seeps, Lord Stark." Cersei's voice sliced through the still air, landing haphazardly on the chopping block that was Eddard Stark.

He glanced up, reserved and quiet, but the grim downturn of his mouth softened. "Cersei." He breathed, the faintest hint of relief in his otherwise impassive tone.

"Do tell me that you've only just awoken." She demanded irritably. "I see that the sky is still dark, the fire still hot, and your face still somber."

"That was a great many observations, my lady." He briefly wondered if she would laugh at him for saying a prayer. Judging by her none-too-pleased expression, he surmised she would. "You fainted."

"Did I?" She adjusted her heavy cashmere coverlet, nimble fingers working through the many layers until she was satisfied. "Well. I suppose I should start eating more. No more of that heavy meat—I want something lighter. Scallops fresh from the sea served over a bed of ripe corn, cherry tomatoes, and tender potatoes. Rosemary too—and basil." She frowned slightly, lower lip jutting out.

"Our supply lines won't be refreshed until next moon's turn." Ned reminded, voice gentle. "And then we must audit the granary and ensure that there's enough salted pork for the smallfolk."

Cersei wrinkled her nose but surprised Ned when she merely turned her head aside, looking out the blue stained window. Her usual fire and brimstone cooled into something Ned did not like—resignation.

"Cersei?"

"My lord you must pardon what I am about to confess but I feel weary and not at all well." Her voice was firm but distant and her hands, usually so untroubled and still, now fidgeted—twisting one of the many jeweled rings around her finger, and round and round it spun. Her next words were measured, carefully paced together. "You must understand that while my disposition may confer weakness I am not, Lord Stark, a woman of frailty."

With her eyes still fixed out the window, Ned felt something propelling him forward. He rose from his fireside position and crossed the room to where Cersei lay, wanting to be near this gilded lioness whose pride prevented her from both confession and acceptance. His weight dipped the bed and his wife, always so curious to the point of intrusion, returned her attentions to him. Her eyes burned like emerald fire, piercing through Ned as if she wanted to dissolve him of all pretense and honor.

He would never confess it out loud but around Cersei, he questioned his sanity as often as he did his virtues.

"You may tell me anything you wish." Ned intoned gravely. "For I shall always see you as what you endeavor to be. Of what you strive to create. I will not be so bathetic as to claim total knowledge of your soul, my lady, but I can promise you that with everything I am, I will try to."

Ned was aware that his words were not the amorous confession of an ardent lover but he knew, with every inch of his bloodstained heart, that he would protect his wife like no other. She had come to him a golden stranger of perfect beauty—a queen of honey wild and manna-dew whose thinly veiled scorn Ned accepted without question. She looked the part of royalty yet with every word she spoke, punctured by a violent need to prove herself, was more than just a verse of poetry—it was fire. A blazing, burning fire that threatened to consume her whole if not properly tempered by the cool winds of spring; she was so filled with passion and earnest desire that, when combined with her haughty pride and rare temper, it was easy to be burned alive.

He never considered himself the gentle rain of temperance but winter and flame was the juxtaposition of every livelihood—the foundation of humanity. He supposed there was a philosophy to it.

With only the briefest hint of hesitation, Ned reached out to take Cersei's hand. She did not recoil.

It was an irregular sight—the calloused, earth-worn hands of a solider and the pale, creamy soft skin of a lady. Two hands joined together in a unity no one thought possible. A Stark and a Lannister.

"Speak your mind, Cersei." Ned gave her a slight smile. "Even if you have already presupposed my answer, I will always listen to what you have to say."

"You're quite good at that." Cersei murmured. "Listening. Thinking. So patient, aren't you?"

"I've had plenty of practice my lady. Benjen ran circles around our father and Brandon was no better—outgoing, gregarious. He would have fled south had it not been for duty binding him here."

Cersei scoffed—though not at all unkindly. "The south is wanting as well." She derided with a click of her tongue. "After a fortnight one tires of the tourneys and stupid, ignorant courtesans who seem to titter and giggle like underfed birds."

"But you were never one of them." It was a statement—not a question.

And Cersei, never one to feign modesty, smirked. "Of course not. I would have died of shame had I behaved in the same obvious manner they did. Predictability is the death of power."

"Yet sometimes it can foster longevity. Peace."

"Only if it's wielded by the right ruler."

"Of course. I would never put a crown on the head of a wild dog."

"But you would anoint a drunken ox?"

Ned flinched inwardly, lips thinning. "Robert is a good man."

"A good man with a penchant for wine, whores, and atrocious temper tantrums. Jon is not yet two years old and he's better behaved than that inebriated stag."

"You mustn't ever speak of his majesty that way."

Cersei's eyes flashed. "Why ever not? We're in Winterfell, not that shit filled capitol."

"He is our sovereign and I will not tolerate such insolence."

"Oh honesty is insolence now?" Ned could tell that his words hit home—Cersei's beautiful features morphed into one of acerbic ire, just hinting at the inferno that lay underneath. "Robert Baratheon may be your childhood companion—the fool you spent time with when boredom creeped in—but without Jon Arryn and his court of advisors, Robert Baratheon would be nothing more than a fat sow ready for slaughter."

She looked smug—proud at how acutely her insults must have stung but Ned unclasped Cersei's hand as if he'd just been slapped. Her hatred for Robert (who she'd only met _twice_ ) could not have just come from his lackadaisical rule. Was she…was she still upset over the loss of her golden crown? He could not offer her a marble palace but he had thought she had made peace with what had occurred.

Clearly, Ned berated, he was wrong.

"I don't associate you with him." Cersei continued. "You're at least capable of governance. He merely sits on the Iron Throne groaning and eating his way to an early death." She scowled."Wasteful—that's all it is."

"I apologize if I have no crown to offer you, Lady Cersei." His words were tinged with ice and not at all pleasant to hear.

His lady wife certainly didn't like the tone of it.

"He's a pig. I would rather not be crowned the boar's bride."

"You would be queen."

"Yes." Cersei conceded, nodding slightly. "I would be." She paused, frowning slightly.

The silence stretched on for a few moments longer and Cersei's hand came to rest on top of her stomach. "My lady? Is something the matter?"

She shook her head.

Cersei's silence was a strange thing to behold. Though his wife was not excessively loquacious, she communicated with affectation—her eyes alone could unveil an entire saga, written in emerald and gold. For her to look so forlorn—almost angrily resigned—worried Ned.

"Would you ever beat me?" Cersei inquired, suddenly and without preamble.

The question struck Ned across the face, knocking the breath from his lungs. _How could she…?_ "No—I. Though we may disagree I would never—I _could_ never—take it upon myself to harm you. Such an act would be—that is to say, I would not…your happiness is more my concern than your agreeability."

His stuttering incoherence—jarred and shaking—must have passed some unspoken test. For now, Cersei fixed him with the loveliest smile he ever did see. A lily on her brow and roses coloring her cheeks.

"Then I have something to tell you, Ned."

 _She'd called him Ned._ Cersei's attachment came with odd angles and shapes; she disliked visible expressions of love as she was Tywin Lannister's daughter and any display of sentiment might be taken the wrong way. Strangely, Ned liked these private utterances more than grandiose displays of maudlin affection. His propensity had always been subtle and underneath the cool control he wore so well, Ned was shy.

Reserved.

It'd been Brandon, Lyanna, and Benjen who brought verve and passion to House Stark. The wild wolves of winter, teeth sharp and jagged, ready to spill ruby blood for the family. Quiet, diligent Ned stayed to the shadows, working behind the scenes of his roguish siblings for he had not their unrestrained beauty. It seemed odd to him that Cersei, an icon of loveliness and the personification of inamorata's touch, should suppress her desires as well.

Now, illuminated by amber candlelight, a soft enigmatic smile on her lips, she was an idol of roses—sweet, incandescent loveliness that held no pretense. He ignored the uneven palpitation of his heart.

Cersei glanced down at her ring and then back at him. "I..." she hesitated and Ned wanted to hold her, tell her she should be able to say _anything._ Almost drawing on his strength, Cersei squared her chin and smiled. "I think you ought to buy more horses."

Ned blinked. "More…horses?"

"Oh yes. Another mare for the stallion to breed with."

He felt strangely empty and very foolish. The frenzied delight of earlier (well, mayhap not _frenzied_ but the feeling had been raw—unrefined—a scorching, rough-hewn ochre.)

With practiced caution, Ned pushed the disappointment aside.

"I did not realize you were so fond of them."

Her jade eyes glittered, full of smug amusement—as if she held a very great and tantalizing secret. "I'm not. But our son might find it enjoyable to have a horse all his own—one he could tend from colt to adulthood."

 _Ah, well._

Ned did not disagree. Such a proposition made sense. It would give the child a strong sense of responsibility and—

He felt as if he'd been hit in the chest by Robert's war hammer.

" _Son?_ " Her lightly spoken words—blithe and casual—finally caught up to his frayed senses, distracted by Cersei's wild pendulum of moods.

Ned felt as if his head had been submerged underwater—everything was indistinct and all thoughts were groggy in his brain. "You…mean to say…?"

Cersei smiled again—though this time, slightly less sure. "Yes. Maester Luwin confirmed it some weeks ago. The fainting spell I endured was caused by malnutrition. Women, it seems, must gorge themselves while carrying a child." She said the last part disdainfully, almost disgusted by such a hideous prospect.

Yet Ned felt euphoric as a strange new warmth permeated his heart and soul, a divination that was all at once unforeseen but also expected. Without warning, his hand came to clutch Cersei's, interlacing their fingers together with a strange sort of intimacy that seemed brand new.

 _A child._ He smiled. **_Their_** _child._

* * *

\- "You engross my thoughts too entirely to allow me to think of anything else." — borrowed from the extraordinary pen of Alexander Hamilton in one of his many love letters to wife Elizabeth Schuyler; October 5, 1780.

\- "A lily on thy brow…" — comes from John Keats poem _La Belle Dame sans Merci_. There are two versions that exist but I'm referencing the original which tells the tale of a noble knight who falls in love with a beautiful maiden. She takes this knight to a cave where he falls into a deep slumber, plagued by nightmarish dreams where he is warned by "pale kings, princes, and warriors" that he has been enslaved by a lovely but cruel woman. (Yes, I'll admit it—I love John Keats. His letters to Fanny Brawne include some of the most beautiful prose I've ever read.)

 **A/N:** Sweet enough to cause a toothache. For Ned and Cersei anyway. This is pretty much the beginning of their thaw - the rest of the story'll focus on building a believable romance between the two. It won't be wrapped in candy floss but it'll be romance nonetheless! (Also listen to Schubert's serenade "Leise Flehen Meine Lieber" when reading the Tarth dinner scene to get a sense of what Jaime's mindset was like.)

 **Also:** thank you for all those lovely messages/comments encouraging me to continue :) you guys are amazing, fantastic, subliminal people who I am very appreciative and thankful for! If I could give you all Hamilton tickets and hugs, I would.


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